


Longing

by phybe



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: D/s undertones, Depression, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Praise Kink, Romance, Sexual Tension, a bit of christian blaspheme is good for the soul, adding tags as the story gets published, and had the biggest crush on one another, but of course grindelwald had to fuck things up, credence and percival knew each other for two years before the identity theft, dealing with grief and trauma, it starts very sad then build up towards recovery and happiness, modesty is as sassy as can be, mystery investigation, reference to canonical child abuse, spirituality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9429572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phybe/pseuds/phybe
Summary: (Now illustrated)Before Percival Graves’s identity was stolen by Grindelwald, he and Credence had been friends. Confidents. And perhaps, had they been given the time, something more.Picks up at the movie’s deleted scene: Credence has survived. Shaken and desperate, he wakes up on a boat, one that also happens to be taking a certain magizoologist back home. Meanwhile, Graves is found and freed, but when he hears that Credence has been killed, his grief and guilt are overwhelming. There seems to be no hope left to be had, until a little girl with a familiar name knocks on his door to ask him a strange request.[A canon compliant AU about the complicated love of Credence Barebone and Percival Graves as they both recover from traumatic experiences, the adorable, supportive person of Newt Scamander, and a sassy 10-year-old witch who won’t take no for an answer.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NB: a headcanon of mine is that Credence uses the word "witch" as gender neutral, due to Mary Lou's rhetoric.

 

 

 

### CHAPTER ONE — Aftermath

        For a long while, he was nothing but blinding rage. At being so weak. So fragile. So useless. At having begged for love from a woman who despised him, and endlessly looked for good intentions in the scars on his wrists. At all the trust he had given to a smile he should have known had been too gentle to be true, and all the secrets he had poured in the embrace of a cruel masquerade.

Most of all, at his loneliness — the gaping, aching void deep inside which screamed that after all, no one had ever loved him.

It wasn’t the same kind of hot anger and inarticulate chaos that had given him a surge of power, when he had killed the senator. Then his adoptive mother. His sister. And Mr Graves. (He hadn’t succeeded that last attempt, and he wished he were strong enough not to feel relieved by that.)

No, this rage was numbing, and powerless. There was no focus to it, no unwavering will to destroy. Only rage at the unfairness of the world, a lonesome shout in the dark. It didn’t fight, it didn’t kick. It didn’t do anything, in fact.

        But it survived. 

 

 

 

        Somewhere, in a dark room that smelled of rusting iron and salt, that realization dawned upon Credence.

He was alive.

He wasn’t sure how. Frankly, he wasn’t sure it was a good thing, either. But there must have been a thing inside him that had some unfinished business with the world of the living, and had clung to existence despite all odds and good advice.

Slowly, as his mind tried to catalogue the elements around him — a ceiling, three pipes, a life-jacket, cracked paint, a broken broom — he got up to his feet. His legs trembled as he did so, weak and sore, but they didn’t collapse under him, and somehow, he managed to walk out of the room.  

The door he pushed was heavy, wet and metallic, and if that hadn’t been enough indication as to where he was, the sound of seagulls and sight of a vast ocean that welcomed him confirmed his assumptions.

 Somehow, he had ended up on a boat, and if the shrinking silhouette of Lady Liberty in the distance was any clue, he was leaving New York. 

 

        As his brain began to piece things together, a rush of panic took over him — how the hell had he ended up here? Had he been sent by those witches from the subway station? Credence was almost sure their aim had been to kill him, but what if they’d just imprisoned him somewhere, and were now shipping him off to some foreign prison — or worse? 

Instinctively, he discarded the idea, evening his breath as he tried to calm down. Credence knew imprisonment; far too well, in fact. And _this_ wasn’t what it felt like. It couldn’t be. Prisons didn’t have bright blue skies and water as far as the eye could see.

In fact, as he watched one of the birds catch a fish and playfully tossing it to its flight mates, Credence realized that he hadn’t felt this _free_ in a very long time.

_Not since he’d met…_

Credence didn’t want to think about Mr Graves. Now that he knew the painful truth, there was no point in reminiscing how happy he’d felt the first they’d escaped the city together, or when the man had brought him weird biscuits in his room at night, or when his warm hand against his cheek had been the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He’d always known there were cruel people in the world — he had been raised by one. And he knew they could sometimes be kind, just to backslap you the second after. No, there was no innocence left in Credence when it came to the extent of human cruelty. But what Percival Graves had done… All those years, all those efforts. All that happiness he’d given him — just to crush it all in a couple of cold, hateful words. It was more painful than any whipping Mary-Lou had given him, for he had stopped believing _she_ loved him a very long time ago.

It was so hard to discard them all, these tangled feelings of trust and love that had built over the years. How painful it was to reconcile the man he’d thought he knew — gentle, funny, safe, strong — and the one he was trying to come to terms with, the true nature of Percival Graves — cruel, greedy, and cold as ice. Had it truly been the same person; the one who had ruffled his hair gently as he called his haircut _“a frank disaster”_ with affection, and the one who had said _“I’m done with you.”_ like he would discard a malfunctioning wristwatch? 

As much as every instinct in his body wanted to believe that it couldn’t possibly be true, he had to come to terms with reality.

Percival Graves had never loved him, either. 

  

        Somewhere, in the dark, he heard the click of a lock, and a woman’s voice.

“GRAVES! _GRAVES!_ ”

It had been a long time since he’d had a dream so vivid — though if anyone had asked Percival how long exactly, he would have been absolutely incapable of coming up with an answer. He had tried counting the days, at first, using the quotidian meal he was brought as the mark of a new evening. But when food had become more irregular, he’d lost the count, and soon with it, any ability to situate himself in the passage of time.

Still, he could tell it had been awhile since his last proper hallucination. Most of his days were filled with tern dreams and memories, too weak and bland to be mistaken for reality, yet always reminding him of the life he had been cut off from. But sometimes, when he got feverish or particularly hungry, he would have dreams vivid enough to fool his exhausted senses.

The first two times, these illusions had brought with them the hope that someone might have come to rescue him. A foolish mistake, that had only made the following days all the more painful. Not one he had made after the second time, either. Somewhere in the dark, Graves had come to terms with the fact that there was no hope left to be had. No one would ever find him; Grindelwald would make sure of that. He would die there, most likely, once the business that had required the theft his identity was done and over with. It was a hateful prospect.

But the visions were nice.

 

        Usually, they involved his mother. Or Credence. Once, his cousin Mel and her son had been there, too. These people had been tokens of innocence and affection in a life mostly filled with crime chasing and dirty politics, and now, in that pitch black cage, they were glimmers of hope in a dark hopelessness. He felt a little better as he told himself that, even if he _was_ going to die here, his mother wouldn’t be fooled. If Grindelwald was stupid enough to meet Mrs Graves, his cover would be blown instantly, and she had enough finesse to pretend otherwise until she could contact Seraphina. Mel and her family were on the other side of the sea, safe from harm. He would have been most worried about Credence — who knew so little of the magical world and its tricks, and relied on him so much. But what purpose would Gellert Grindelwald have with a half-blood whose powers had never been given the space to develop, one who lived with No-Majs, no less? 

The wizard had probably never heard of Credence, anyway. Percival had made sure that no one but Tina knew of his situation; and even she didn’t know of the close bond the two of them had grown to share. As far as Porpentina was concerned, the arrangements he had put in motion to get Credence to Ilvermorny on a special course was only to help her case when they’d ask the congress to rehabilitate her as an auror (a foolish act to protect a wizard was always looked with a kinder eye than one to protect a No-Maj). And to be fair, that _had_ been the reason he’d taken Credence under his wing, originally. It wasn’t like him to get attached, nor take it at heart to save a boy from an abusive home. But things had changed, and the young man had become more important to him than he had ever been willing to admit. 

One of the things he regretted the most about dying like this was that he hadn’t given Credence a proper goodbye. The boy would probably feel like Percival had abandoned him without a word. He’d feel betrayed, and wounded, and lonely. He’d hate him, perhaps. Either way he would remain a painful memory, which was the last thing he’d ever wished to be in the eyes of Credence. But hopefully, once this all was over and Grindelwald was done using his name, Tina would finish their work and give Credence the happy life he deserved. Maybe she could even tell him he had never intended to leave him alone, too.

It was a good thing to daydream about. Out of all the visions his tired brain came up with, those of a Credence aging happily were his favorites.

  

        But today, it seemed his subconscious had chosen someone more original as its champion of survival; none other than Madam Seraphina Picquery, president of the United States’ Magical Congress. They _had_ been good friends in school, so he supposed it wasn’t all that strange, but he still was a little surprised with his own imagination.

The light from her wand hurt his eyes; which was unprecedented, and Graves wondered if he might be sicker than he’d thought. From it he could see that she wasn’t dressed in the majestic way he’d last seen her, instead showing clothes more like the ones she had once worn before coming into office, more practical and sober. He tried calling out her name, but it came out as a rasped breath, barely audible. When was the last time he’d drank from the leaking tap?

“Graves — oh god, Graves, it’s really you! Porpentina, go get help! He’s _alive_!”

Tina was there too? The hallucination was getting more and more bizarre, but if anything, the incongruity of it all made him laugh. Two women he admired deeply, and who respected him, witnessing the pitiful sight he surely was right now. Incongruous, indeed. Seraphina, perhaps noticing how dry his chapped lips were, muttered a spell that let a stream of water flow down her wand, and brought it to his mouth. The relief that washed over Percival’s entire body as he drank avidly was better than anything he had felt in months, and he paid no mind to the noises and commotions that were growing around the cell. When he was done, he looked up to the vision, eyes filled with infinite gratitude.

“Thank you, Sera,” he murmured, dazed and feverish.

“That’s Madam President to you, Percival,” she scolded gently, a tear of relief sliding down her cheek. It had been years since he’d last heard that phrase. Graves had stopped teasing Seraphina after her first few months in office, and he’d forgotten how often she’d used to say these words to counter-attack his banter. He’d forgotten how much he found it irritating, funny, and endearing all at once. But now here she was, saying them again, and somehow, despite the déjà vu, nothing about this felt like a memory. 

It didn’t feel like a vision, either.

His hand clenching on the fabric of her robe, he whispered in a pained voice: “Help me, please.”

And it might have sounded like a weak, pathetic, trembling little thing — but as he said those words, Percival Graves felt more real than he had in a very long time.

“That’s what we’re here for,” she whispered back, and smiled at him kindly.

        Credence wished he could have stayed forever in that exact spot. Feet locked on the wooden deck, eyes lost in the blue, the wind whipping at his face in a fresh breeze. No one around, just the chant of sea birds and fishes underneath. He felt numb. And free. He felt he could forget everything right there, losing himself to the contemplation of the ocean.

But of course, humans appeared. 

Instinctively, Credence hid himself behind a pillar. He had been distrustful of people before, but it was _nothing_ in comparison to the sheer paranoia he was feeling crawling up his spine. He had still no idea why he was on this boat, but if experience of the past few days had taught him anything; it couldn’t be good.

They were speaking with what he thought he recognized as an Irish accent — some boring conversation about Wall Street and its shenanigans. Credence didn’t feel the throb inside his chest that occurred every time he was close to a witch, but he knew better than to trust that feeling. After what had happened in Manhattan, there wasn’t a single thing about himself he could trust.

Quiet and quick, in the way only those raised in threateningly silent households know how to be, Credence walked down the corridor, not sure what he was looking for. An explanation, mostly. He’d expected the place to be buzzing with magical energy and hidden traps, but somehow, there was nothing out of the ordinary. It all looked like a painfully normal boat. Not that he’d ever stepped in any boat he could remember of, mind you, but he supposed that _was_ what normal boats looked like. He hid himself from the passengers with extreme care, but even those who did see him did not react in any unordinary way. He did get a weary look from a sailor with a kind smile, which terrified him for an instant, but when the man spoke, all he said was “You lookin’ helluva tired pal, get some rest!”

Credence didn’t answer, instead hurrying past his inquisitive eyes.

 

        A few minutes of aimless looking around had brought him absolutely no clue as to where he was and why he was there, and the frustration was adding to the tension his anxiety and confusion were already building up in his shoulders. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes, breathing slowly, and attempted to focus.

At first, Credence could not feel any magic around him, and for a hopeful second he almost believed he was finally rid of whatever had made him sensitive to it in the first place (whatever had made him a _freak_ ). But as he concentrated, he sensed that there _was_ a source of it on that boat — a distant one, yet still, he could feel it. Something strangely warm, and twitching, that was all centred in one specific spot. It didn’t feel threatening; but then again, at the start, Mr Graves had felt like the opposite of threatening. And hadn’t he been the biggest threat of them all?

Satan in a Sunday hat.

He discarded the painful thought, focusing back on the aura. More than simply reassuring, there was something vaguely familiar about it. Not that this… ‘ _ability’_ of his was reliable in any way — most of the time, it just indicated the presence of a witch, if that — but Credence had a feeling he had sensed that condensed warmth in the past. He didn’t associate it with negative emotions (on the contrary, actually, which was the strangest bit) but he could tell it had to do with magic, and magic wasn’t something he would ever trust. Now, even less than before.  

  

        But just as that thought came to him, Credence realized that he wasn’t leaning against the wall of the corridor anymore. Without noticing, he had been walking all the while, instinctively drawn to the source of the warmth, and now he — 

A door was in front him, and Credence knew with unwavering certainty that behind it was the room the warmth came from.

His heart started pounding erratically as panic took over him; it was as if he’d been sleep-walking, as if something else had taken control of his body and driven its actions while he’d been stuck in the passenger seat. He tried to calm down and make sense of things, but there was no stopping the shaking, and it was getting harder and harder to breath. It was all too much, _too much_ , too unknown, and even if when he raised his trembling hands there was none of the black smoke with which he’d killed before, he had yet again no control over his own actions; and the fear that stirred into him was staggering. His vision was blurring around him as a stabbing pain pierced through his temples, and all his muscles suddenly felt weak. 

In that second, the door opened, and in his feverish daze, Credence was able to register three things. 

A man with fluffy hair was standing in front of him, looking bewildered.

The man was a witch.

He was the witch who had spoken softly at the subway station.

After that, the world turned black, and Credence collapsed heavily on the floor.

 

        Percival had been staring blankly at one of the many pieces of paperwork he needed to fill when a knock on the door startled him back to earth. He couldn’t deny the rush of fear that sent chills down his spine for a second — that was happening a lot, these days — but he quickly discarded the irrational feeling. There was nothing to worry about. He just needed to keep the facts in mind. _Grindelwald is imprisoned. The security of my department has been decoupled._ And, most importantly: _kidnappers, torturers, killers, and all the other things I am now afraid of have one thing in common — they don’t knock._  

Still, he had an ominous sensation about what was to come, a bad feeling that had little to do with his recent trauma. But he chased that intuition, too, and, straightening his back, raised his voice in a falsely detached tone: “Come in.”

 

The door opened, and not too surprisingly, Tina entered the room. They hadn’t seen each other since his rescue five days ago, other than a face in the crowd or a fleeting glance in the corridor — but Percival had expected her visit. He’d awaited it impatiently, in fact, and to finally see her made him all at once relieved, excited, and apprehensive. Graves had a lot of questions, and some of them, only Tina could answer. 

Only Tina knew of Credence.

“Hello, sir,” she said coyly, tugging at her ill-fitted coat with some awkwardness.

“Hey.”  

“How are you feeling?” she asked in a tone that would have sounded brusque to a stranger, but that Percival had learnt over the years to recognize at her way of expressing concern. Tina had never been good at showing her emotions, a trait Percival could relate to and had grown somewhat fond of.

He smiled joylessly. “How do I look?”

“A lot better, sir,” she assured almost too earnestly, but Graves chose to believe her. After all, compared to the pathetic state her and Seraphina had found him in, looking _a lot better_ was not exactly difficult. Proper food, a shave and a shower had already gone a long way, and the cocktail of medicinal spells and herbs he was given each day probably helped, too.

“Good,” he answered, though not sounding like he particularly cared. “I feel that way, too.”

 

        A silence installed itself between them, one that Graves recognised (on his side, at least) as the presence of an elephant in the room: Credence. Even if Porpentina didn’t know of his emotional attachment to the young man, his protection had been a secret shared between them for more than two years, and as such their times alone were seldom spent without speaking of him at least once — if only about trivial matters, or a simple _‘how’s he been?’._

Now that Percival hadn’t seen Credence in two months, curiosity and anguish were burning his lips.

Wasn’t she going to bring it up? Did he really have to _ask?_

Once the silence had stretched long past any comfortable quietude, Percival took a breath and spoke up.

“Tina — ”

“Mr Graves — ”

She blushed while he coughed, the awkwardness all the more flagrant.

“You first,” he obliged, hoping it might burst the bubble of discomfort between them.

“I… Okay,” Tina answered, looking uncharacteristically nervous as she cleared her throat. “W-What have you been told about… about what Grindelwald did, while he was using your appearance, sir?” 

That had not been the question Percival had expected, and his patience was thinning, but he answered it all the same. “I heard he killed people, and I assume he had been planning some conspiracy to get us exposed and take over the MACUSA.” 

Truthfully, the essence of Percival’s knowledge on the matter had been gained from overheard conversations. People were walking on eggshells around him, these days, even more than before. He assumed it was a meddle of pity at his recent troubles and fear of the authority he maintained, but it was not any less irritating. He usually did not dislike intimidating his subordinates — it was as good a way of keeping discipline as any other — but not when that kept him from the answers he sought.  

“Yes — he…” Tina stammered, biting her lip. “That’s the bottom line, yes.” 

“Could you care to elaborate?” Percival snapped, unable to keep the point of sarcasm from his voice. This conversation was making him grow restless. He’d waited long enough, hadn’t he?

The witch nodded firmly, seeming to gather her confidence as she took a deep breath.

“He was… looking for a child.”

Percival raised an eyebrow.  “A child,” he repeated, deadpan.   

 “A child who would have refrained their magic with such fierceness that they would’ve fallen to the prey of a sombre parasitical magic force,” Tina started to explain verbosely, “one we thought had been extinct but in fact still exists, and if unleashed would cause chaos, as well as — ” 

“You’re speaking of an Obscurial,” Percival deduced. Anyone who had paid attention in American History and Magical Sociology at Ilvermorny had a notion of obscurials and obsucuri, and Graves didn’t appreciate being taken for an idiot. 

Tina nodded, non-phased by his tone.  

“But — What on earth does that have to do with _me_?” Percival asked, trying to wrap his mind around what an obscurial had to do with _anything,_ actually. He had assumed Grindelwald had chosen him for his position of power, a way to infiltrate the MACUSA and cause chaos from the inside, but if he had just been looking for a child, why him? It wasn’t like his face was the most kid friendly of the bunch, and to take such high risks just to gain the trust of a kid… “I don’t know any… ” he began.

 Until it hit him. 

 He could see the page from his textbook. Self-loathing. Abusive parental figures. Intense fear and hatred of magic.

And, incidentally, an unwavering trust in him.

It was, yet again, the elephant in the room. But at a place where he had least expected it.

“Credence…?” Graves whispered inaudibly, refusing to believe it.

 

        Softly, Tina gave him a newspaper. It was dated two weeks back, and its cover showed the moving image of an obscurus exploding in the sky of Manhattan. On the side, there was the portrait of a saddened face Percival had grown only too familiar with. His hands were shaking as he tried to process this, unable to decipher a single word on the paper.  

“B-but,” Percival stuttered, suddenly feeling faint. “Credence is 21 — that’s — that’s much too old for, for — ” 

“We don’t know how it’s possible, Mr Graves, but it was him,” Tina said in a voice that sounded like she would have rather said just about _anything_ else instead. “I saw it — _him_. He must have been incredibly powerful to surv— ”

But as panic seized him, Percival was starting to realize something was amiss in this whole mess, and for a second he couldn’t care less of the _hows_ and the _whys_ and the _whens_ of it all — there was only one thing that mattered to him right then. “Where is he?” he pressed urgently, interrupting her.  

“Sir, I —” Tina attempted, but Percival was tired of excuses — he wanted to see him, and he wanted it _now_. 

“What have they done to him? _Where are they keeping him_?” 

Tina’s face paled as her superior’s voice was becoming louder and downright hysterical. “Mr Graves, sir, please don’t — ”

“I need to see him!” Percival had gotten up, pacing around the room as in a frenzy. “Take me to him, Porpentina, where is he? _Where is he?”_

Her eyes looked down, and Tina’s voice was the softest murmur.

“He’s dead, Mr Graves.”

        A swift blow. Silent. Devastating.

Percival became quiet.

As from a distance he heard Tina explain something about the damages the obscurus had caused, and that they still knew no cure for it, that Madam President had had no other choice than to order an execution — but his brain couldn’t process the meaning of the words. It was just a twirl of unintelligible sounds to him, and then, not even that. There was only one thing he understood with lethal clarity.

  _Credence was dead._

It seemed to him that the whole world suddenly grew quiet, that night.

 

        Since the evening that had taken the last bits of happiness from his life, Credence had spent the greater parts of his conscious time trying to get to terms with Percival’s real nature — his cruelty, his lies, and the true meaning of his embrace. It seemed, however, that his subconscious had yet to get the memo. In his dreams, Mr Graves was not the cruel man who’d hit him harder than Mary Lou. No, he was the kind one who had the warmest smile in New York City. The confident, strong one, the protector who listened to him and gave good advice. The one who had saved him, even though the last thing he’d ever deserved was saving.

Under Newt’s silently worried watch, Credence slept for hours, for days — for weeks, perhaps — and dreamt. Dream after dream, mirage after nightmare, there was only one common thread amongst the drowsy mist: Mr Graves was there. Some fantasies were extravagant and crazy. Some were warm, and steamy, like all the others shameful dreams he’d kept secret from Mr Graves. And some were just memories, still in seamless condition. 

In particular, Credence dreamt of their first meeting.

 

_His ‘ma’ was preaching her gospel at a corner of 44 th street, in that loud theatrical way she did every other week. His right wrist burnt in pain, but the rest of him only felt numb. _

He’d used to feel numb a lot, back then.  

_That was when he first saw Mr Graves. What made him notice him amongst the crowd was that his eyes were fixed right on him, in the way no one’s eyes ever did. The looks of people glossed over Credence like a stream of water over a particularly uninteresting rock, but not Percival. His eyes looked, stared. Focused, deep, and only at him._

_It terrified Credence, his mind racing with an irrational anxiety — ‘does he know? Does he know what I am? How disgusting I am? He can’t know. No one knows. But what if he does? What if he knows? Will he tell? Will he tell_ her _?’_

_When panic took over, Credence ran in a dark alley way, seeking a desperate shelter from the piercing eyes that made him feel both terrified and dizzy. In vain, for as soon as he turned around — he was faced with him again. So tall, broad, intimidating, and Credence could only wonder how he’d managed to be so quick._

_"Hello," the man said in a deep voice, his eyes still locked onto Credence. They were even more intense from up-close, leaving the young man weak in the knees. He clutched onto his Second Salemers flyers tightly, unable to return the greeting. An instinct in him knew that just to be in front of this stranger would be worthy of punishment, so to speak to him? If Mary Lou learnt…_  

_If his silence bothered the man, he shown no sign of it, for he continued to introduce himself in a calm, controlled voice: "My name is Percival Graves."_

_Credence still did not answer._

_"You are the son of Mary Lou Barebone, aren't you?"_

_"Adopted son," he muttered almost automatically. A reflex learnt the hard way, yet when he realised he’d spoken, his cheeks darkened in a deep crimson, as though he had just committed a sin of the highest kind. And it felt that way, really._

_"Yes,” Percival nodded, unable to hide his contentment upon hearing him finally speak. “And you believe what she says?"_

_Credence only frowned. Mary Lou said a lot of things._

_"About the witches? You believe in them?" the man went on._

_It was too much to bear. If the conversation had felt like a sin before, these words made it close to blasphemy, and the thought of what Mary Lou would do if she heard a single word of it…_

_“The truth is there for those who seek it," Credence murmured mechanically, before throwing a bunch of flyers in the arms of the stranger. He then tried to leave, but Percival stopped him, grabbing his wrist gently._

_"Really? And the evil of witches — that’s the truth you’ve sought, too? "_

_"Let me go..." Credence pleaded._ _He couldn’t listen to this. He wasn’t allowed to._

_“You don’t think there are any kind hearted witches out there? Or any evil humans?”_

_At that sentence, though, Credence stopped moving, staring at the man blankly in a meddle of fascination and terror. He didn’t know what to answer, and images of Mary Lou beside the witch who’d tried to help him rose to his mind. The craziest thing, though, was the indescribable way Mr Graves looked, that confident knowing air. As though he knew exactly what Credence was thinking about, and was thinking the same._

_"Not everyone thinks like Mrs Barebone, you know,” Percival said in the warmest voice Credence had ever heard._

_“I don’t,” he went on, delicately peeling the sleeve from Credence’s wrist, letting bleeding red scars on pale skin show to the face of the world. Then, he looked up at him, always so intensely. “I want to help you, Credence.”_

_“You can’t help me,” the boy answered in a trembling voice. Because it was true, no matter how much he wanted to believe that strange man with forgiving hands and deep dark eyes._

_“How will I know that until I try?” the man answered. Like it was just that simple._

_“Why would you help me?” Credence retorted. Because to him it was anything but._

_“Because you need help. And… because I’m just like you.”_

_Credence stared at him, confused. There was nothing about him that was even remotely similar to the mesmerizing stranger in front of him._

_“You’re not a freak, and you’re not evil, and you’re not alone, Credence,” the man whispered softly, and it had sounded like he meant it. Like he really did mean it._

_Then he took a wooden stick from his pocket, murmured a strange word, and in an instant, the scars had disappeared, and the pain with it_.

  

        Credence had run away, back then. He’d ran, and he’d cried, and he’d hated himself. But when he’d went to bed, that night, the words of that stranger had brought him warmth.

_'You’re not a freak, and you’re not evil, and you’re not alone, Credence.'_

Looking back, all he could think was that right from the start, Mr Graves had told him nothing but lies. 

 

       The five stages of grief were theorized by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, in her acclaimed book _Of Death and Dying_. When Percival would read it in 1969, he’d understand with a lot more clarity how he had reacted to the announcement of Credence’s death.

At the dusk of 1926, however, he had not read _anything_ about how humans react to intense grief. Nothing had prepared him for it — not his first heartbreak, not his father leaving, not the death of his cat. Nothing compared to this. 

To him, _this_ just felt like chaos.

 

        In the first few days, he was invaded by an overwhelming numbness. Nothing felt _real_ anymore. He couldn’t listen to the doctors, nor his friends, not even his mother. He couldn’t feel pleasure or joy (let alone happiness) about anything at all — even food tasted bland, and practicing his favorite spells brought him no solace either. The only thing he could feel was Credence’s absence. _That_ was omnipresent. Every street they had crossed together were painful and bittersweet, and because they had crossed many of them, Percival just stopped going outside. He spent most of his days sleeping, neglecting to eat unless he was force-fed; unable to cry, perhaps because he had tried so hard to be tough all his life that he’d forgotten how. 

His apathetic trance was only shaken when he found a small silver brooch, pinned to the fabric of a trench-coat which had once been his favorite. It was a camellia, thin and delicate — Credence had offered it to him for his 36th birthday. He could still hear the young man explain that he’d snuck out to the only street shop that was open late at night, when Mary Lou was asleep, and how he’d asked what he should offer to a man he admired. And because camellias meant “admiration” and “good luck”, the vendor had shown him that brooch.

Though Credence hadn’t said it, Percival knew the boy must have saved money for months to be able to buy it. He could have gone with any cheaper gift, or no gift at all, and Percival would have been content. But he’d chosen instead to use all his savings to buy him a brooch of silver petals, because a shopkeeper had told him they had a special meaning.

If innocence could be embodied, Credence would be its allegory. He had been so kind. So vulnerable. So good.

And they had killed him.

 

        It was unjust, so completely, wretchedly unjust. Credence was dead, and the rest of them were alive, all of whom deserving life less than Credence had. The more he looked at the brooch, the more furious Percival felt. A scorching rage was taking over him, one which could have been directed towards the entire world — for the entire world was at fault, including himself — but that he chose instead to focus on Grindelwald.

He became obsessive with the case, as though the certainty that Gellert Grindelwald would receive the harshest punishment imaginable and see all his fanatics brought down could somehow bring peace to Credence’s soul. From lethargic inactivity, he suddenly stormed right back into his office to work all hours of the day and most of the nights. He neglected his health about as much as when he’d stayed in his bed for four days, but this time, it was directly converted into blazing energy, and in a week Percival made more progress with the investigation than his whole team of aurors had in the past month.

It was impressive to be sure, and his colleagues were happy to see him ‘back on track’. He just had to ignore Tina’s worried looks.

Those he couldn’t ignore, though, were the president’s. While Seraphina presumably knew nothing of his relationship with Credence, she knew _him_ well, and could perfectly tell that her best auror was still very much shaken.

“You’ll burn yourself out, Graves. Take some vacation.”

He’d replied that vacations were the last thing he wanted after months off the force, but the president had dropped a voluntary leave form on the desk of his office all the same, along with a note that said _‘in case you change your mind’_. 

Percival had no intention of changing his mind.

 

       After a while, his rage eventually cooled down to a quiet anger, and he allowed himself some breaks. But whenever his mind wasn’t focused on work, he found himself unable to stop thinking about all the ways he could have prevented Credence’s death. If he had been more careful. If he had managed to escape. If he had told Seraphina about him. If he had noticed the obscurus, and done something about it.

_If we had never met._

The thoughts were so painful, while ringing so true, that drowning himself in work was the only thing he could do to cope. 

 

Percival couldn’t have known about the five stages of grief at the dawn of 1927, yet he did almost go through them all, albeit in a strange order. Depression, Anger, Bargaining. And he was just about to reach Acceptance, when Denial kicked in. Not as the self-delusion it usually rises as, though. Denial came to Percival Graves in the strangest of ways — one Elisabeth Kübler-Ross would surely have found interesting.

It came as a knock on his door, and behind it, a breathless little girl.

“You _have_ to help him!” Modesty panted, and from the frantic look in her eyes, Percival did not doubt for a second which _him_ she was talking about.

       When Credence woke up this time, it was to the feeling of a warm blanket and soft cotton sheets — a much nicer experience than the cold metal of the damp room he’d found himself earlier. Not that he could place when ‘ _earlier_ ’ had been — it felt as though he’d only been out for a couple of seconds, but his body was as drowsy as if he’d slept a week. Most of all, despite the warmth and softness, Credence was uncomfortable, heavy and feverish in a way no human sickness had ever made him feel.

He wondered numbly if he really was going to die, after all.

‘ _Not a big loss.’_

The voice inside him wasn’t even his self-loathing, for once, but an apathetic rationality. In the space of a few days, he had either terrified, killed, or been betrayed by everyone he had once cared about.  There was no one left. No one who would mourn his death, and no one he would miss when he went to hell. Even that prospect did not scare him as it once had.

When life hurt so much, it was difficult to picture death as anything but a relief, no matter where Lucifer planned to send the likes of him.

  

       With difficulty, he finally managed to sit up on the bed and open his eyes, finding himself in a small bedroom. It was messy, filled with open books, notepads, plants and peculiar objects scattered all around the floor, as well as on the shelves and tiny desk. Instead of a door, there was a large opening where a fourth wall should have stood, letting light shine from the exterior.

Lost in the contemplation of the room, Credence did not notice the chair besides his bed, nor its occupant, and when the young man called out a friendly “You’re finally awake!”, his jump of fear succeeded to make him trip to the floor, still tangled in his blanket. 

Once again, it was the witch from the subway station. Credence clenched the sheet against his chest, feeling terror rise in his throat as he slowly went further from Newt, until he had his back against the wall. He was already thinking of ways to escape before the other could curse him, when the man stammered nervously: “You — uh — wait, you don’t have to be scared. I won’t hurt you.”

_‘Sure. That doesn’t sound like a lie at all,’_ Credence thought, trying to get his fear under control as he carefully scrutinized the man.

“I’m Newt — Newt Scamander. You’re… Credence, right?”

An uncomfortable silence was the only answer Newt obtained.

 “H-How are you even…” he murmured, before letting the question die as he ruffled his hair anxiously. If Credence wasn’t himself so damn scared, he would have pitied the other man. He clearly wasn’t in his element — and well, who could blame him? Dealing with freaks of nature such as him was hardly anyone’s elements.

_It had been Mr Graves’s, though…_

Credence chased the painful thought as swiftly as it came.  

“Do you remember me?” Newt finally settled on asking. Credence was hesitant, but gave a little nod.  

That seemed to encourage the witch who got up from his chair, before pacing around the room, seemingly trying to decide which question to ask first in a situation which was, objectively speaking, all kinds of fucked up.

“W-why — how did you get here? Did you follow me?”

“I have… no idea,” Credence answered truthfully, his voice vulnerable in a way he despised.  “I woke up on a boat, and then…”

 

       That was the moment his exhausted brain chose to make some logical connections, and Credence realized with horror that _he_ _was not on the boat anymore_. Not that the boat had felt safe in any way, but how many times was he going to faint and find himself at some random new place?

“Where _are_ we?” he asked, unable to keep the alarm from his voice.

“Uh, it’s… It’s complicated,” Newt mumbled.  

Complicated meant magic.

Credence _hated_ that.

In fact, he could sense magic all around— the warmth he had felt on the boat was in every molecule of this place, all magic, magic, _magic._ He was surrounded by it, engulfed in that substance he hated, in sin and filth and Credence _hated that_. 

Because it was evil. Sinful. Unnatural. And because he was afraid. Magic always meant punishment. It meant scars. Death. Betrayals. All sins, all pain, and he wanted to get away from it, go as far as possible from any ounce of magic in the universe. His breaths were coming out ragged and scarce, and he could feel the sentiment of panic spinning in his chest, constricting his throat. 

“I want to get out,” he ordered, already feeling cold sweat running down his spine.

“Hey it’s ok, don’t —” Newt attempted, but Credence couldn’t listen.

“Let me out, I want to — want to — get out of —”

Before he could control it, the same attack he’d had at Modesty’s old home was taking over him, his panic and terror rising and rising as he trembled and panted, and soon the black-out would — 

 

       But it did not come.

It felt a bit like taking the final step of the staircase, only to realize he’d already reached the top. He recognized these familiar feelings, the rise, the crash, but the aftermath, the explosion of dark, bitter energy… did not come. When seconds became minutes and the blast still did not occur, Credence risked holding out a tentative, trembling hand, and though there were small twirl of black smoke coiling around his fingers, it was still very much… human. What the hell was going on?

“It won’t lash out in here,” Newt Scamander spoke up in a soft voice.

Credence looked up to him, still shocked that he had somehow managed to keep the darkness under control. “How do you… ” he started, but didn’t know how to finish. He had so many questions, and couldn’t phrase a single one of them.

“It’s a special place; a safe one,” Newt helpfully explained. “That’s… also why I brought you here. W-when I opened the door you started to lose control, and I was —“

He stopped himself before he could say the word ‘ _afraid’_ , but Credence heard it anyway. He didn’t blame the man. Whatever he had become, it terrified him too. In fact, it probably terrified him more than anyone else.

“I just wanted to make sure everyone on the boat was safe,” the witch settled on saying instead. “That’s — including you.”

 

       Credence still couldn’t bring himself to trust the other man — even if his demeanour was as innocent as you made them — but his curiosity was getting the better of him. Whatever he was, it seemed that Newt Scamander knew more about it than Credence did. The thought brought back a blurry memory; soft words said in the midst of the gaping darkness. Their first meeting. 

“Back in the subway, you… You said you knew someone else,” Credence murmured, barely audible. “Someone like me.”

Newt’s expression decomposed. Suddenly he looked terribly sad, and much older. When he answered, his voice was quiet, and a little broken: “I did. She was kind.”

A couple of words only, but they woke a deep empathy in the younger man. Perhaps because he couldn’t help but picture Modesty. Perhaps also because the pain in Newt’s eyes was so familiarly genuine. No matter what the past years of deceit with Mr Graves had taught him, Credence found it hard to believe anyone could fake a sadness this vibrant. Instinctively, he lowered his guard slightly. Not trusting. But open.

“I didn’t know there was anyone else like me,” he answered softly.  

Newt shook his head, before assuring: “You’re not alone, Credence.”

The simple sentence stabbed right through his heart, directly taking him back to the man who had first pronounced them, two years ago. They weren’t warm now; they wouldn’t help him sleep at night. They were just a lie. Credence was more alone than he’d ever felt before, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Newt got closer to him, apparently taking his silence as an invitation to carry on his explanation. “You—you have been infected by a magical parasite. It’s called an obscurus. It took advantage of your pain to take hold of your powers for itself.” 

“The black smoke?”

Newt nodded. The more Credence learnt about magic, the worse it became. He glanced at the smoke swirling around his arm. That smoke had made him kill. Three human beings, whose only crimes had been to call him a freak (which he was), to punish him (which he’d deserved), or simply to _be_ _nearby._ Never had he been more convinced of how true Mary Lou’s words had been. Magic was evil. And somehow, it had taken possession of him, taking advantage of his weakness. What a detestable abomination he was.

“I hurt so many people,” Credence could only whisper, and he felt tears of self-loathing well up in his eyes.

“Credence, don't say that! It wasn’t you!” Newt asserted, a hint of panic in his voice. 

“It felt like me.” It had felt _with_ him, too. ‘It’ had killed the people he’d wanted dead for the flicker of an instant. And even if he could believe he would never have hurt them without that demon inside him, he still couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t _wished_ for it in the first place, these people would still be alive. And if he had been stronger, the demon wouldn’t have taken possession of his body in the first place.  

Without him, no one would have died.

“Credence; none of this is your fault,” Newt tried in a weak attempt at reassuring him, and came closer to put a hand on his shoulder. Instantly, Credence jolted away from the touch as though he’d been burnt, and went to cower in the corner of the room, as far from the unexpected contact as he could manage in the narrow space.

 

       Newt blushed, ruffling his hair uncomfortably. “Sorry, I — ” he began, but left the apology hanging, perhaps unsure how to phrase it. He got up in an awkward rush to leave Credence some space, and walked a few careful steps back. The younger man did not say a word. His eyes were wide and anxious, like those of a frightened animal, and not one Newt knew how to tame. He paced around for a bit, then stopped, and turned back to him.  

“Do you want to come with me?” he suggested softly. “I’d like to show you something.”

Credence stayed on the floor for minutes longer, unable to move. He was finding it very hard to trust him, but there was something in the way he’d phrased his words that made it hard to say no. Perhaps it was the fact that it hadn’t been an order, but a question. There was also an undeniable curiosity slowly boiling in Credence, for the world he had been thrown in this last week (or maybe before that, maybe when he had met Mr Graves in the first place) was about as terrifying as it was intriguing.

And it was very much terrifying.

Hesitantly, he got to his feet.

Then, with a little nod, he murmured: “…Ok.”

Newt’s face brightened, and by a gesture of the hand, showed him the way.

 

       It was the middle of the night, yet from the red of her cheeks and the erratic way she breathed, Percival could tell the girl had run to get here. How had she found his personal address? How did she even _know_ him? He felt the throb of a headache starting to build. This was nonsensical. Perhaps he was dreaming. Or worse.

“You’re… Modesty, right?” he said hesitantly, though not unkindly.

“Yes,” she answered impatiently, “and you’re the real Mr Graves. Please, you gotta listen to me —”

“Wait, kid— _real_?” Percival repeated, stunned. How the hell did that ten-year-old No Maj know about his… accident?

“I read about your story in the journal,” she answered as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Makes sense. Credence always described you as very nice, but when I saw the other you, he was so rude. _And_ a complete nitwit.” As though to prove her point, she got out the piece of paper from her leather backpack — last week’s issue of the New York Ghost.

“How did you come across this?” Percival asked, anger slowly building on his confusion. Whoever had given this to a NoMaj had contracted a serious breach in the Protection of Maj Anonymity Act, and he really did not have the heart to deal with this, especially not when it involved someone whose mere name brought back painful memories. 

Either not reading the anger in the adult’s eyes or choosing not to care, Modesty simply rolled her eyes irritably, as though Percival was just another stupid grown up, wasting time on useless details.

“A friend of mine gave it to me,” she said. “But more importantly…”

“You should never have come across —”  

Before he could finish, Modesty reached in her bag again, and this time took out a wand.

Percival was too stunned to answer. The girl just rolled her eyes once more.

“Oh, good, do I have your attention now?” she asked, voice dripping with a surprising amount of sarcasm. “To business then: _we gotta help Credence_!”

 

       Just to hear that name again was like rubbing sea salt in a fresh wound. Why was this happening to him? Why did _he_ have to deal with a ten-year-old’s way of handling the loss of her brother, when he couldn’t even get over it himself? 

 “Listen, Modesty…” Percival said weakly, the room spinning around him. “You… you probably didn’t read that part of the article, and I’m sorry no one told you, but Credence is…” But he couldn’t finish that sentence. Even now, almost two weeks later, he just could not. It was too hard. It was too unfair.

“He’s not dead,” Modesty insisted stubbornly, and Percival _could not deal with this_.  Of course she would deny it — she was 10, and she was alone, and she had loved him. But Percival couldn’t handle this right now. He didn’t have the right mind to be the adult. The grown up. The responsible man he had once been.

“He is,” he finally said, almost inaudibly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t understand,” Modesty pleaded, “I had a vision!”

“Dreams are — ”

“Not a dream!” she cried in frustration. “A vision! Like the one I had when I first met Credence, and whenever ma' beat him too hard and he needed band aid!”

“Modesty…” 

“These visions come true, don’t you see? They’re precise, and Credence was there, first on a boat, and then at a train station and there was a hill and a castle —”

“Modesty.”

Heavy tears had started rolling down her cheeks, and Percival drew her into a tight hug that surprised the both of them. 

“I miss him, too,” he confessed softly.  

“He’s not,” she insisted between two sobs, “I swear he’s not…”

 

       Long minutes passed before either of them moved, the silence only broken by Modesty’s muffled crying. Then, slowly, Percival drew apart to look at her face. It was all reddened and flushed with tears, her eyes shining. Credence had cared deeply for this girl, he knew. And while the two had no blood in common, there was something in her that reminded Percival of the boy he’d loved. It was in the way she stared, or maybe in the way she cried. Perhaps just in the way she _cared_. In the innocence that laid under all the preteen sassiness, too. 

He could feel a surge of possessiveness taking over him, and silently he led her to the kitchen, offering her a seat as he put some water to boil. Evidently, he would have to use a different approach.

“Ok,” he acquiesced, his tone much more calm and under control. “A vision. And what exactly do you want to do about that?”

Modesty’s face brightened with a grin when she realized he was finally ready to listen to her — _actually_ listen. Very quickly though she turned back to a semblance of seriousness she probably thought made her look older, cleared her throat, then explained: “He… He wasn’t feeling well. I think he needed help. So I want to find him, and help him.”

Percival envied how simple life sounded in the minds of children.

“And where would he be?” Percival carefully asked, so that it would not be too obvious that he was only humoring her.  

“I don’t have a name for the city,” she answered, biting her lip, “but I saw the station really well, and the city from the sky too, so I could recognize it from that.” 

“You could draw it?” Percival suggested. He remembered Credence had said once that Modesty was a good painter. If that could occupy her for some time while he thought of what the hell he was supposed to do with this situation… 

He eyes lit up at that, seeming delighted.

“YES!”  

 

       He brought her some paper and ink, leaving her to draw in the living room while he retrieved the safety of the kitchen. He could really have used some strong coffee right now, but his unexpected guest being a damn  _kid_ , Percival settled for some old tea leaves (which had probably occupied his cupboard for too long, but he supposed she would not complain). As he infused them, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the darkness of the window. He looked like shit. He felt like that, too. Tina would surely scold him if she knew what he was doing — but how could he leave the girl alone?

If there was any of Credence left in this world, that little girl was it. And Percival just couldn’t bring himself to let go of that. 

Perhaps he should have. But he couldn’t.

(Or at least, did not want to.)

He took some more time to put some (stale) biscuits on a platter with the cups, then went back to the living room. Modesty was still drawing, looking immensely concentrated, and while he waited for her to finish, Percival stared blankly at the light of the gas lamp, lost in thought. He still hadn’t even touched his cup of tea when the girl let out a satisfied: “Finished!”

And whatever Percival had been expecting… It had not been this.

 

       It wasn’t so much the art in itself which was spectacular — she was gifted, to be sure, but no more than one would expect from a talented child.  No, what was unbelievable about the two pictures she held out in front of him were not _how_ they were drawn. It was _what_ was drawn. 

These were drawings of the Edinburgh train station, and the city from the sky. Both done with staggering detail.

“Modesty…” Percival said faintly, struggling to believe what he was seeing. “Have you ever been to Europe?” 

“What? No. The furthest I’ve been’s New Jersey,” she pouted.  

“But surely you… you know some of it, right? You’ve seen pictures of it maybe?”

“Well, I saw a photograph of that weird leaning tower from Rome, once,” she said, not realizing her mistake.

“So you don’t know of Scotland then?”

The comment seemed to offend her, as she defended herself with childish bravado: “Of course I know of Scotland!” 

“And what’s the capital there?” Percival asked carefully.

“Uh… Dublin?”

“No. Edinburgh.” 

“Oh,” Modesty said, blushing a little. “Well that’s kind of a weird name.”

 

       The girl did not even know the _name_ of the city, yet even him who had been there only three or four times could recognize that train station. He got up to search in his papers for a map he might have brought back from his travels, and when he found one, and put it next to the second drawing, the view from the sky…

It was identical. Down to the last alleyway. Even if this _was_ some trick, how to explain that she reminded it all so clearly? No normal dream, or even hallucination had the power to mark one’s memory this exact. Especially not a kid who couldn’t tell apart Pisa from Rome, or Edinburgh from Dublin.

Percival looked at her. A lone girl with no protection but him. Staying with her, protecting her, making sure she accepted the death of her brother — that was what Credence would have wanted.

He looked at the vacation slip still on his desk, and the note from Seraphina. It was what she wanted.

And he thought of the magical mystery at hand, of this little witch dreaming of Edinburgh — back when he was still himself, investigating that was what _he_ would have wanted.

It did not occur to him that, in fact, the normal him would never have trusted this girl who’d mysteriously got a wand, mysteriously knew his name, mysteriously showed on his doorstep, and said the words he’d subconsciously been dying to hear. That going with her was not the sensible thing to do, but in fact the most reckless, childish decision to make. But perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps ‘ _sensible’_ wasn’t what he needed, right now. 

He only had to take her there, protect her, then bring her back when his curiosity was satisfied and she could accept the death of her brother. 

And if it allowed him to hold on to the slimmest of hopes, well… who could blame him?

“ _You_ have kind of a weird name,” Percival retorted with a dry smile, Modesty’s eyes widening with shock. “Come on. Let’s go pack your things.”  

       The rooms and spaces they passed by were all so alien Credence had to wonder if this wasn’t yet another dream. But though he still felt dizzy from the fever and his vision was blurry at times, he couldn’t deny that everything he was going through, no matter how crazy and baroque, felt _real_.

He was starting to think that maybe, this was what magic was all about. Passing through different climates in one corridor.  A kind man wanting to help him just because he _cared_. Absurdities that felt real — until the other shoe dropped.

The other shoe always dropped. As Credence looked at the distant sunset and all the strange creatures that played in the field, he wondered what would be the catch here. Perhaps it would all self-combust. Perhaps some divine punishment would smite them from above. Or the bunnyish… _things_ would try to eat them once they had their backs turned.

“Come on Waldobert, leave Isadora’s tentacles alone!” Newt scolded as he passed them by.

_‘Or maybe this guy will’,_ Credence thought dimly.

Altogether this place made him feel terribly uncomfortable. _Dirty_ , even. Not because he did not belong — that was a feeling he was very much used to, and would have been fine with. It was actually the opposite. He could not stand how much he fitted in this grotesque picture of unnatural skies and creatures. He hated how he found the flowers pretty, that he liked the warmth of the air, and the way these fluffy demons almost smiled at him as he passed them by. Some of these were even _cute_. 

_‘Your mother was a wicked, unnatural woman!’_

His wrist twitched in pain at the memory. This place did remind him of his mother. His _true_ mother. He didn’t remember her very well — in fact, all he effectively remembered was a plump woman’s silhouette bidding him good night, and the warm scent of her embrace. All his life, Credence had tried to hate these memories, or at least to forget them, for he knew his mother had been an evil woman. She had planted sinful seeds in his soul — seeds that had slowly but surely grown to become the dark smoke. A magical parasite. A murder weapon. Remembering her with fond feelings was as wrong as finding these monsters cute. No matter how painful the years with Mary Lou had been, ultimately, she had tried to save him from damnation. No redemption is obtained without pain. Credence’s only rebellious acts against her had been his relationship with Mr Graves; and look where that had led him…

He didn’t think there was any hope left for redemption at this point.

 

       His grim train of thought was cut off when they entered a desert of ice and twirling snow. But the décor was not what captivated Credence’s attention. For right in front of him floated a crystal bubble; and inside it was trapped the same black smoke as the one which curled around his hands.

Though the landscape might have been that of a snowy winter, nothing about this place felt cold. In fact, as Credence approached the sphere, he realized that… this was the warmth he’d been looking for. What had called to him, ever since he’d stepped on the boat; this was its centre, its core.

“That’s…” he whispered, fascinated. ‘ _Me_ ,’ had been his first thought. ‘ _A memory’_ , his second. Newt simply nodded, but stayed silent. His eyes had retrieved the sadness from earlier. 

As in a trance, Credence raised his hand slowly, letting his fingers graze against the shimmery surface. The smoke of his own obscurus seemed to react to the contact, twitching and twirling around the envelope to meet its orphan double. _‘Worse than a memory,’_ he thought numbly. _‘A ghost.’_

And suddenly, the world faded out.

 

            At first, everything was dark and silent. 

Then from the obscurity emerged flickering silhouettes, like lines of ink on a humid paper, or a cold flame flickering in the bottom of the ocean. Most of them came and went, blurry and indistinguishable, but one was growing more focused, more definite.

A little girl.  

Memories quivered one after the other, and all the silhouette changed, but the little girl’s remained. Always in the same room. Just a plain, dark room with no bed and decoration. Four bare walls, and a heavy door. The girl never left the room. Credence could hear her voice, and sometimes the hazy yelling from other figures, but it was in a language he did not know. He could not understand a word of what she thought, but he could _feel_ what she felt. And these feelings were only too familiar. 

Solitude.  
  
Hatred.  
  
Terror.  

And pain. So much pain.

The silhouettes came in and went out of the room but they all shared a common sentiment: they hated her. They _despised_ her, and all they brought in the room was pain, through whips on her back that hurt Credence like he was bleeding too, or words in a foreign tongue that made him want to sob.

The memories flickered as the dark smoke grew, and it seemed to make the pain even greater, the shadows all the more menacing. In the midst of this sombre whirlpool of blood and tears, there was only one glimmer of warmth. An old woman braiding her hair, and a young man patting her back. The woman, Credence didn’t know, but he felt a kind of love he had never known radiating from her. The man was Newt. And in that vision, he made her — them — feel safe. Protected, cared for. 

But they could never stay long, and the warmth did not last. Soon it was lost in the vortex of all the rest — the solitude, hatred, terror, _pain_ — and the demon took over.

Then it was all dark smoke, and blood. The smoke tore down the walls, exploding into the air. Images of lifeless corpses passed before her eyes, some she didn’t know, some she had hated. The corpse of the woman who had braided her hair, too.  At that sight all she could do was cry, hot tears rolling down her cheeks, and Newt was holding her tight amidst the smoke, trying to keep it away, wounds all over his body as he was crying too. He chanted words of latin and stranger tongues, painted symbols on her skin, poured potions in her mouth, but all it brought was more pain. A sharp, incredibly intense pain, nothing like what Credence had ever experienced, as though something was tearing her apart from the inside, like she was already in the worst corner of Lucifer’s kingdom.

Until, finally, all was dark again. And nothing hurt.

 

       Credence opened his eyes again.

It took him a while to readjust to where he was. He felt hollow, as though a part of himself he hadn’t known existed had just been ripped from him. He took a few steps back from the spectre, and only then did he realize that tears were rolling down his cheeks. 

He looked towards Newt, his feelings a mix of his original suspicions and empathy, the little girl’s affection and unwavering trust, and a new kind of admiration, almost to the point of disbelief. He wanted to sob. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to shout, kick, run, weep.

He did not move.

“You…” he murmured, but couldn’t go on. It was impossible to put so many confusing emotions in human words.

“I couldn’t save her,” the man confessed, his voice uncharacteristically hard, angry. Glistening with pain.  

In Credence’s eyes, that was hardly the point. That girl had been like him, an outcast, a freak. Like him, she’d had a demon in her. But still Newt has cared for her, helped her, tried everything in his power to save her. He had been to her what Credence had once thought Mr Graves had been for him — a savior, a Messiah. Except that unlike Mr Graves, Newt had not done that for some cruel master plan. He had not shown his true colors at the girl’s most vulnerable moment. No, Newt had stayed gentle and strong until the end, had tried to _help_ until the end.

If despite all of that he still hadn’t managed to save the girl, then it was something only God and the Devil could be blamed for. 

 

       Before Credence had the time to express these thought, Newt spoke again: “But I… I think I know someone who could save you.”

Disbelief and confusion were written plain across the younger man’s face.

“What?” he said, rather eloquently.

“He was a professor of mine in school,” Newt explained, “an extremely talented wizard — who knows many talented healers, too. I wasn’t capable of saving Hanifah… but he _will_ help you.”

A long silence hung in the air between them.

Newt had answered the wrong question. It wasn’t the matter of the _could_ that confused Credence.

“… Why would he save me?” the boy asked. 

There was a beat, before it was Newt’s turn to utter a helpless: “What?”

“I _killed_ people,” Credence told him.

“That wasn’t —”

“I’m a freak. A monster.”

“Not you, Credence. It’s not _you_.”

“Then who am I?” he shot back, a fiery anger suddenly taking hold of him. “Beyond all the smoke, the blood, the sins, the murders, what’s left? A pathetic excuse of a being, orphan, barely even human, who killed or scarred all the people he cared about because he was too weak to keep his demons under control?”

 

       There was another silence. Newt seemed on the verge of tears himself, his lower lip trembling and a thousand emotions passing through his eyes.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just walked closer, and drew him into a tight hug.  
  
This time, the touch did not feel unwelcome at all. For a reason Credence could not explain, it even felt soothing. It reminded him of the nights when Modesty would climb in his bed after one of Mary Lou's 'bad days'. They’d put bandages on their wounds and tell each other stories of happier places. When Credence let down his guard, and passed his arms around Newt to return the hug, he felt the wetness of tears through the fabric of his coat. 

“It’s ok. I should have died a long time ago. I don’t deserve to be saved,” he murmured. Then, he left a longer silence lay, before he finally dared to say what had been on his mind ever since he had woken up on the boat: “And I don’t… _want_ to.”

This caused Newt to jolt from the hug abruptly, his expression changed in an instant.

“Don’t say that — don’t you dare say that, Credence!” he urged, taking his shoulder in a way that was alarmed and almost… angry. “How old are you?”

“…Twenty-one?” Credence answered hesitantly.

“Right. Twenty-one. You know how many years of life you could live, if we managed to cure you?” 

The boy just blinked, unsure what to answer and confused by the sudden change in tone. It was as though Newt was a whole other person, suddenly so serious and confident. 

“Decades and Decades! Half a century, maybe twice as much! You know how long that is? You know all the stuff you could accomplish; all the things you could become? The people whose lives you could change for the better?” 

In front of Credence’s perplexed expression, Newt’s shyness seemed to finally catch up, and in a rush of self-consciousness, he blushed, almost apologetic. He did not apologize, though. Instead he cleared his throat, then continued in a softer voice that was closer to his usual, awkward self:

“You don’t like who you are right now, I get that. It’s ok. It’s hard. But you’re so young, you’re… not even close to who you could become. If it’s death you want, you’ll have it in the end. We all do. And it’s a one-way ticket. But before that happens, don’t you want to make sure you’ve lived the best of what life can bring?”

 

       There was something in how naturally his words flowed that made Credence think Newt must have held that discourse to someone else in the past. 

Maybe even to himself.

He sounded so passionate, so sure of himself, filled with such a bright optimism — something Credence couldn’t even begin to understand. Much less relate to. _‘The best of what life could bring’_? But what was the point, if even the best kind of happiness turned sour and painful once the truth was unveiled? 

Yet, how could one say no to someone with such a pure hope and love for life in his eyes? Credence couldn’t. The words were stuck in his throat Instead, he settled a more pragmatic response: “You say that… but are you sure it’s even possible that I survive?”

Newt’s eyes grew darker at that response.

“I don’t know if an obscurial _can_ be healed,” he admitted dejectedly. But you’re already a miracle, Credence.”                               

That sounded so wrong. So terribly wrong, and blasphemous.  

“If only one obscurial can get saved, it will be you,” Newt went on.  

_How unfair. You deserved it more than I ever will, Hanifah._

“And if only one wizard can do it… it will be Albus Dumbledore.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt is confusing. Credence is confused. Percival is paranoid. Modesty is not interested in being polite or respectful towards authority figures. 
> 
> And things get real queer, real fast.

### CHAPTER TWO — Parallels

   

        “Mom, I’m sorry,” Newt said in a voice that expressed both sincerity and a desire to end the conversation as quickly as possible. Which was understandable, given that he'd been stuck on the station’s payphone for at least half an hour — mostly listening, though he sometimes tried to add little comments through the mouthpiece. 

“You know I would visit if I could, don’t you?” he asked again, before staying silent for a new patch of long minutes.

“I’ll come for New Year’s Eve, I promise,” he assured. “Besides, Theseus and the kids will be there, right? You’ll have a lively table, and no magical pets running around the house.”

Whatever his mother then said had his face turn the color of a healthy beetroot. Credence cocked his head curiously.

“ _No_ , I haven’t found a sweetheart, mom,” he muttered, and the younger man let out a chuckle at that, which got him a helpless look from Newt. Whatever the wizard had found in him, it fitted the description of _‘crippling inconvenience’_ more accurately than ‘ _sweetheart’_. Credence still wasn’t sure why Newt felt so compelled to help him, but he suspected it had a lot more to do with Hanifah’s death than the value of his own life.

“Alright, I have to go,” Newt finally managed to blurt out, hurrying as though the opportunity to hang up may pass any second. “I’ll see you next week. Say hi to dad for me.”

He quickly put the receiver back in its holder, then said nothing for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought.

Finally, it was Credence who broke the silence.

“Don’t you want to spend Christmas with your family?” he asked carefully.

Perhaps it was a bit clumsy to make that comment when the man had just been volubly lectured by his mother over the phone, but he wanted to understand. From the little Newt had told him, his parents were by no means like Mary Lou — in fact, he had seemed rather fond of them. And Credence knew how important Christmas was. Had he been blessed with a loving family, he definitely would have wanted to spend the holiday with them around a big, warm meal, like those you could see on adds hung by toy stores windows.  

Despite himself, that notion made him think of Modesty. God only knew where she was now. Who would she spend Christmas with? Would anyone get her gifts? Would she have somewhere warm to sleep? Did she… miss him? At least the ‘him’ of before, the big brother who had cared for her, did she miss _him_? She probably thought him dead, and was surely relieved with that knowledge, but for a second Credence allowed himself to imagine if they could somehow be reunited, and spend Christmas Eve together.

It was a warm thought. But impossible. 

So needless to say, Credence really did not understand why Newt would give up on a family reunion. Especially if it was to instead help a stranger possessed with a murderous, unpredictable demon.

“I can see them after,” Newt commented matter-of-factly. “Christmas is just a date. Beside, I don’t know if…” He paused, then slowly, hesitantly, put the back of his hand against Credence’s forehead. Because the wizard had checked how his fever was doing more than once now, he knew what to expect, but he still felt uncomfortable with the proximity — both physical, and the one he could sense through his worried eyes.

“I don’t know how much time we’ve got,” the man finally said, “and I’d rather not tempt fate.”

 

        As they walked through the crowd of St Pancras Station, Credence thought about that ‘ _we’_. It wasn’t the first time Newt was using it. Concretely speaking, he had no obligation whatsoever to help him — no blood ties, no debts, nothing. Just his guilt and a kind heart, yet that seemed enough in his eyes to somehow seal their fates together, to think that whatever would happen to _him_ , would happen to _them_.

He stared at the man for a second, then commented: “You’re way too kind, Newt.” 

That seemed to embarrass him more than anything, and his attempt to come up with an answer to the compliment translated in nothing but an awkward: “Ah — uh, I mean…” 

Credence, however, had not meant it as a compliment.

“People will take advantage of it someday,” he added more darkly. Almost ominously. And after all, he knew what he was talking about. Credence wasn’t a _good_ man by any means, yet he’d been fooled in doing the biddings of an evil one all the same. He could only imagine what would become of someone with a heart such as Newt’s if he crossed the path of someone like Mr. Graves.

The wizard didn’t seem very pleased with the warning, though, perhaps because of their age difference. Without ceasing to walk, he turned around to face Credence, and crossed his arm with a pout that was surely supposed to look intimidating. 

“I can take care of myself.” However, the impact of his declaration was effectively spoiled when he bumped into a small elderly woman, and started to apologize profusely to her while she just walked away with rolling eyes.

“…Right,” Credence said with a hint of a smirk, raising an eyebrow.  

“Oh, sod off,” Newt cursed, but the corner of his lips twitched in a smile.

 

        They had a little time on their hands before their train’s departure, so Newt stopped by a small newspaper kiosk that was ran by a bored middle-aged lady. When she saw the wizard, however, her face brightened. They engaged in a cheerful small talk for a couple of minutes, during which Credence took in the view of the station’s glass ceiling. He’d never thought he would leave New York City — much less go to _London_ , but he wasn’t complaining. Between the constant fever that damped his pale skin, and the growing darkness he could feel inside, Credence knew that no matter how talented the wizard they were visiting would be, he didn’t have much longer to live. So to be able to see a bit more of the world before death was… an unexpected bright side. 

He rubbed his hands together, then buried them in his vest in search of some warmth, when his fingers brushed against a thin, metallic object. He didn’t need to take it out to know what it was. Still, he did so. The pendant between his fingers felt colder than the winter air, and its edge reflected the pale sun rays in a sharp light. He allowed himself to admire it one more time. Just for a second. Just for a little bit. Then he’d put it back.

Keeping the present of a man who had betrayed him was stupid. Idiotic. Pathetically sentimental. Yet he couldn’t help it —  it brought him comfort. He’d received it at a time when Percival had been his life, his shining hope for a better future. The first person who had offered him gifts, the first person who had made him brave. 

Credence had none of that hope left, now. But the memories were persistent, and the feelings they brought in their wake, even more so.

 

He snapped out of it when the lady left through a backdoor in a loud noise. Quickly, he slid the necklace back in his pocket where Newt wouldn’t see. He wasn’t even sure why he kept that a secret from him — perhaps was he afraid the man wouldn’t understand.

Or perhaps he was afraid he _would_.

Credence had enough of Newt’s pity as it was.

When the woman appeared again, it was with a small pile of magazines wrapped in kraft paper. Just from looking at the package, the thing inside Credence twitched, and he could tell in a glance that there was some magic involved there — a theory further confirmed by the odd coins Newt gave in exchange for it. The lady, however, didn’t seem to have any particular aura; or if anything, something very volatile. Were there humans involved in witch business, in this country? Or were there types of witches that Credence’s demon failed to sense? 

As they walked towards the platform their train was announced to arrive on, Credence’s curiosity got the better of him.  He caught up with Newt, and made sure to whisper as quietly as he could: “Was that woman a witch?”

Newt looked surprised by the question. Perhaps he hadn’t suspected Credence to be so perceptive, or maybe that was just a rude thing to ask. Either way, he cleared his throat and answered, nowhere nearly as quiet as the younger man had just been: “Yes, actually, she is.” He passed a hand through his hair and frowned a bit, seemingly hesitating to say anything more, before he decided to add: “Although, she doesn’t have much magical power as it is, and the wizarding world is very unfair to people like her. That’s why she works amongst muggles.”

Somehow, Credence knew exactly what he was talking about. “A squib,” he murmured, remembering the cruelty with which Percival had said these words to him.

Newt’s eyes went wide. “Ah — uh — yes, that’s what some people call it. But I — I find that appellation quite rude, to tell you the truth.”  

Credence let out a sigh, a bitter smile dawning on his lips. “Yes. I find it rude too.”

If Newt had been meaning to ask how he knew that word, the pained expression that constricted the boy’s pale features dissuaded him from it. Instead, he squeezed his shoulder, then said: “Let’s catch our train.”

 

        Said train was already there by the time they reached the platform, and Credence had to stop for a second to admire the fuming locomotive. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen an engine of that size — if ever. On its side hung a panel that displayed their itinerary, all in intricate golden calligraphy: ‘London — Edinburgh”.

 “I’d rather apparate,” Newt confessed, having probably noticed Credence’s staring, “but I can’t manage this distance on my own, and I’m afraid someone might recognize you if we used a public portkey or the floo. Your face’s been in quite a lot of papers these days.”

And to be sure, Credence had an easily recognizable physique. His hair had grown a little more shaggy, his skin even more sickly (he hadn’t even thought that possible) but there was no mistaking his large, dark eyes, nor his sharp jawline and sharper cheekbones. Percival had also once told him that he carried himself like a guilty person, his shoulders hunched as though weighed down by a terrible secret (which of course, they were) and effectively making any person with the slightest detective instinct suspect him at a glance. And if that had been the case back then, well. It was probably even worse now.

“I prefer the train, anyway,” Credence simply answered, his eyes still fixed on the impressive locomotive. The further from magic he stayed, the better he’d feel. At least, as far from magic as you could stay when your destination was the home of a _wizard_. 

“I figured,” Newt said with a knowing smile.  

 

They installed themselves on their second class seats — who would have felt coarse by today’s standards, or to someone used to more comfort than that which Credence had been raised in. But things being as they were, he did not notice it, and rested his cheek against the window, waiting for the train to depart.

Neither of them felt like talking, and as such, the first hour of their trip was a mostly silent one. Newt was reading the newspapers and magazines he had just bought — no doubt catching up on everything that had happened in the British magical world since his departure — while Credence allowed himself to daydreams, his eyes lost in the contemplation of the passing landscape.

He felt terrible. Sickness clung to his body like a second skin, and the headache that rang between his temples was already a week old, and seemingly more painful each day. Newt had told him it was to be expected — the obscurus was slowly weakening his immunity and absorbing his energy. But it was also a worrying warning sign: Hanifah had died only two days after her symptoms had begun. Evidently, Credence’s demise was taking a slower turn, but it was impossible to predict when the guillotine would fall. For that reason, Newt was restless and eager to reach Dumbledore as quickly as possible.

In addition to the fever, there was another dark sensation crawling up Credence’s spine. It wasn’t one he was very much used to, and for that reason, he felt it all the more strongly. 

The feeling of being watched.

But before he could voice his (probably paranoid) worry to Newt, the wizard spoke up himself: “Hey, they’ve found Mr Graves. That was quick. Looks like Tina helped in the rescue, too!”

It took a moment for Credence to register these words. He was so… confused. And hurt. _Scared_. Why would Newt bring _him_ up? Didn’t he know how deep were the scars he had left behind? Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t even know what an evil man he was, maybe he had been fooled, too. But hadn’t he been with by the kind witch’s side when she’d said _‘this man — he’s using you’_? How could he _not_ know? 

And yet beneath all that pain and confusion, there was another, nagging emotion, something he didn’t want to admit but couldn’t help feeling. He was _worried_ about Mr Graves. It was so fucking stupid, so naïve, and he hated himself for caring.

But he did care. He had hurt him, betrayed him, almost killed him, yet still, he cared.

To think he had just told off Newt for being too nice. Speak of a kettle calling the pot black.

“… What was he rescued from?” he croaked, desperately trying to convince himself he asked out of simple curiosity.  

“Well, the place where Grindelwald held him,” the other man answered matter-of-factly.

“Who’s that?” Credence asked, all the more disoriented.

Newt stared at him blankly.

“Right you… you didn’t… you’d already… when he…” he muttered unintelligibly. He ruffled his hair awkwardly, biting his lip. “Well you see, he’s an awful man, who was disguised all along as —” he began, but stopped in his tracks. His expression was stunned for a second, as though he had just realized something very important, and he murmured: “…Now that I think about it…” 

Credence didn’t think he could get any more confused.

“Mr. Newt, I don’t understand anything you’re saying right now.”

“Right — sorry I just…” he took a deep breath, then attempted to speak in a clearer manner: “Credence, how long have you known Percival Graves for?” 

It was a painful question. Credence couldn’t even begin to understand why it needed to be asked. Why rub it in? Why _now_? What was the point?

Still, he answered reluctantly: “…Two years and a half.”

Newt’s expression decomposed to become one that was equal amounts of astonishment and horror.  

“I… I’m not sure how to tell you this,” he said slowly — a fact that had been made abundantly clear by now. “Wizards… We have ways of transforming things into others. And sometimes, very powerful wizards can even change their whole appearance to… look like someone else.”

Credence wasn’t sure what Newt was getting at. Or rather, he had a very specific idea of what he was getting at, but he couldn’t allow himself to hope. “…What do you mean?” 

“Well,” he breathed, “from November to December, the man you thought was Mr Graves wasn’t… _him_.” 

And faced with the boy’s petrified silence, Newt sealed in four words the miracle Credence had not allowed himself to believe in. He said them in a somber voice. Solemn. Tangible. _Real._

“He was Gellert Grindelwald.”

 

  

 

 

        “He should be there soon,” Modesty announced after a brief look at the rusty pocket watch she carried around.

Percival still wasn’t sure whether that fact was supposed to relieve him, or add to his growing anxiety. The girl had been very secretive as to who her ‘ _friend’_ was, and the only information Graves had managed to obtain were that he was a wizard called Rook, and that he was the one who had informed her about magic. He had also given her a wand, the newspaper she’d been carrying the other day, and had told her where she would find Percival.

All these indications had made him think it was probably a member of MACUSA’s Juvenile and Educational Department who had overstepped his job boundaries; some Carer who might have grown fond of Modesty. But when Percival had checked the archive of No-Maj born wizards, he had not found a single file about a Modesty Barebone (nor a Maude Sheffield, as had been her birth name). The birth of Modesty had passed completely under MACUSA’s radar.

Which, in itself, was extremely peculiar. The birth of magical children from No-Maj parents was something the Oracles usually never failed to notice. A ‘miracle’ of that scale — magic resurfacing in a lineage where it had lain dormant for generations — left a vibrant mark on the Magical continuum, which they sensed immediately. The only explanation for Modesty’s birth not to have been in the archives was that it had been at some point _erased_. That in itself required a deep amount of skill, and points of entry in the most secluded depth of the MACUSA — either through hierarchal power, or an acute talent for larceny. Possibly both.

And if the knowledge of such an individual looming over Modesty’s destiny wasn’t bad enough, the fact that this ‘Rook’ _knew_ of her powers despite their existence being so carefully concealed made it very likely that he was the one who had erased it from the record in the first place. After all, if he had found out about it any other legal way, he surely would have told the MACUSA about it.   

Bottom line, Percival was about to meet a wizard who was: a. powerful (while Graves still had not recovered from his injuries fully), b. against MACUSA’s authority (which was pretty much his job description), and c. fiercely protective of Modesty (who he planned to take on a recklessly spontaneous trip to Scotland).

Nothing good could come out of this.

 

        That anxiety in mind, Percival jumped when he heard the sudden _pang_ of an Apparition, and was about to reach for his wand… until he saw _who_ the mystery man was. 

Arguably, it wasn’t even a man at all. For the person Modesty ran to embrace was… a _house elf_. For a second he thought they might be the servant of the wizard they were waiting for, but when the little girl shouted an enthusiastic “Rook!”, there was no doubt left to be had. 

 _‘Well, fuck me,’_ Percival thought, stunned.

This was miles from anything Graves had imagined; and his imagination was pretty damn vivid, these days. He could hardly believe it —yet there was this elderly elf, propped on a small wooden cane, his dark skin covered with wrinkles and weighed by the mass of long, white dreadlocks.

“My little Maude… How nice to see you, how nice,” he said in a voice that trembled as much as the hand with which he patted her back. When Modesty finally drew away from the hug, Rook turned towards Graves, squinting his eyes as he looked up. “And you must be Percival…?”

Said Percival was more than a little out of his depth in terms of which social cues were in order here, and the fact that he was still shaken from his astonishment did not help in the least. “Uh… yes,” he answered eloquently.  

“I am humbled to meet you,” the elf said, nodding in some phantom approval. “My name is Rook, as you have heard. I once served the house of this little lady’s father." 

_Wait. What?_

This new information was so unexpected that Percival didn’t even register Modesty’s pouty protestation in the face of being called ‘little’. 

“Your father is a _wizard_?” he blurted, astonished. Knowing that unlike Credence’s, Modesty was no orphan, he had naturally assumed her to be born from No-Maj folks… Why the hell would a wizard leave his own daughter to the care of an anti-witchcraft lunatic like Mary Lou?

“Yeah,” she confirmed nonchalantly. “But I never met him, not even before ma’ took me in. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly born on the right side of the bed.”

He frowned and grumbled a _“who even taught you that expression?”,_ to which the little girl rolled her eyes, never missing a beat.

 

        Modesty’s insolence and inappropriate knowledge of adult idioms put aside, this… actually made sense. It was morally dubious, completely illegal, but it made sense. More importantly, it gave a much simpler explanation to the absence of her file in the No-Maj born archives: Modesty was _not_ No-Maj born. Percival was more than a little embarrassed not to have thought of this option before elaborating a complex conspiracy theory. His recent kidnapping had truly made him stupidly paranoid. 

“Lord Marcus was a kind man,” Rook explained in his soft, shaking voice. “But I’m afraid he had a certain… weakness, for beautiful people, yes… No matter their powers; or lack thereof… And Lady Maude’s mother was a beautiful woman, yes, beautiful indeed…”

This was very interesting and all, but there were still parts of that tale that did not make sense. “So — what happened?” Percival asked, cutting to the chase before Rook could dwell on his master’s penchant for pretty ladies any longer. “I understand why a base-born child would be a delicate issue — but surely her father expected her to develop powers and kept some sort of watch; how did he allow her to end up with the Second Salemers?”

Which was but a politer way to say: ‘ _Surely, just about anyone would have been better than that bitch of Mary Lou Barebone?’_

“Oh, Lord Marcus died before that decision was made…” Rook answered with genuine sadness. “A tragic case of Influenza… Lady Maude was only two of age… And when at four, she started showing her first signs of magic, well, her mother panicked… But I was there all along, watching over her.” At that, Modesty smiled brightly. “Even long after I was done serving house Merendik, I kept watching… I had intended to send her to Ivelmorny, once she was old enough, but…” There was a long, ominous pause, in which Rook’s pale eyes were lost in the distance, before he finished in a mysterious voice: “It seems more urgent matters have arisen for now.”

The name Merendik rang a clear bell. They were a very old family of potent wizards… To think that one would meddle with a No Maj. The knowledge of such a secret made Percival terribly uncomfortable. Not only was it strictly illegal — which bothered _him_ immensely — he knew that an influent margin of American wizards had very stern beliefs regarding the purity of the magical blood. He remembered even arresting a few for the _murder_ of half-blood children, under this somber banner.

That had been one of the reasons why he’d kept the existence of Credence a secret in the first place. He, too, had been a half-blood child, though the story of his birth had been much grimmer than a bored rich man’s adultery.

“Rook, you gotta come with us!” Modesty pleaded, cutting through Percival’s painful train of thoughts.

“No, no, my child,” the elf hushed, “I am now at the service of new masters who need my caring. Besides…” He turned towards Percival, lifting his head slightly. “I trust Mr Graves will be capable of protecting you perfectly well, won’t he?”

His tone had a dark edge, something that managed to make even a weak, ancient elf sound almost… scary. But Percival did not waver.

“Of course. I swear it.”

The elf’s frail hand gestured him to come closer. Curious, Graves did so, kneeling beside him. There, Rook murmured in his ear: “You should take this child’s vision with utmost seriousness, Mr. Graves. There is potent sorcery to be found in the vicinity of an obscurus, some your specie has long forgotten… But our elvish memories stretch further than yours…”

Modesty found her exclusion of the conversation to be profoundly offending, and she exclaimed in discontent: “Hey! Watchu saying!”

“Boring things, my lady,” Rook assured, “boring, adult things indeed.”

She pouted, obviously not convinced. The elf, however, was seemingly not inclined to explain himself, and instead switched the topic smoothly: “Take better care of your wand this time, alright? I know they look like twigs, but these do not quite grow on trees, little lady.”

Modesty’s cheeks went pink at that, and Percival wondered dimly what had happened to the first wand. Rook, however, was not finished, and he turned towards the auror. “As for you, my boy…” he said slowly, the appellation incredibly foreign to Percival’s ears. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him ‘ _boy’_ — if ever. “If anything happens to this child,” the elf went on with a warm smile and an icy tone, “do believe that Gellert Grindelwald will be the least of your worries." 

And before Percival could ask anything else, Rook snapped his fingers, and disappeared in the night.

 

  

 

_It was Gellert Grindelwald._

A long silence stretched in the air of the train compartment.

Credence was too stunned to speak.

Not even in his moments of utmost denial had he allowed himself to wish for a miracle such as the one Newt had just put in words. 

 _Could it really be true?_

Credence couldn’t believe it. It was too soft, too beautiful to be real. Reality was harsh, and unfair, and vulgar. Most of all, reality had no miracles. 

Yet he could not deny that this single new information made every inexplicable mystery so much simpler to explain. It had been practically impossible to reconcile two sides of a same Percival, the Kind and the Cruel — when it was so easy to distinguish two different characters under the same disguise. 

Newt continued to explain softly: “He is a terrorist who wishes to expose our secret, and start a war with the muggle world… and he wanted to use you, for that purpose.”

It made sense. _It made sense,_ and it changed everything. Before he could get a hold of himself, Credence felt his eyes tingle and water. He hid his face behind his hands, but couldn’t help his shoulders from shaking uncontrollably as hot tears of relief, happiness, shock, and other emotions he couldn’t name rolled down his cheeks.

“I — I thought he —” he stammered, but the rest of his sentence was lost in broken sobs.

 _Everything made sense._  

How weird he had seemed, and how sudden his transformation. His aura, that had felt so unmistakably different. Every little change in attitude. How he never made jokes anymore, and that he asked more about Mary Lou’s orphans than anything else. How he’d stopped caring about Credence altogether, or merely pretended to — poorly. The strange necklace. How he had hit him, even though he’d sworn that _he_ would never do that. And that last day, that dreadful night which had seemed like the worst of his existence… The raw cruelty that had transpired from his words.

Credence had thought he’d been shown Mr. Graves’ true nature. He had tried to make sense of this crooked jigsaw puzzle, where none of the pieces seemed made to fit together.

But he had been missing the most importance piece all along.

“C-credence, are you ok?” asked Newt, worried, and clearly lost by the sudden situation.

“I — I’m so relieved — I”, the boy tried to say between two hiccups, before breaking in tears again. Newt fidgeted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. He attempted to stroke Credence’s shoulder supportively, but only succeeded in an awfully awkward pat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before...” he said regretfully. He had obviously not realized how much Percival Graves meant to Credence, and how deeply Grindelwald had hurt him.

But the younger man shook his head vigorously, firmly refusing the apology. Even if it was true that knowing about this a month earlier would have avoided him a great amount of pain, he was so infinitely glad to hear it (from a man he trusted wouldn’t lie, no less) that he couldn’t hold anything against Newt. 

His memories of the past couple of months were now shed with a whole new light — and it made them _so much brighter._   

But suddenly, in the midst of his surge of happiness, Credence realized something.  
  
_The necklace._  

It hadn’t been a present from Mr Graves, but from the agent of Lucifer who had taken his appearance. 

He hurried to take it out of his pocket, throwing it on the table that separated him from Newt’s seats.

“I — I gotta get rid of this,” he stuttered, overcome with the urge to put as much distance between the pendant and him.

“Oh hell, that’s — ” Newt cursed, pure fear shining in his eyes. “Did Grindelwald give you this Credence?”

The boy nodded, petrified.

“He… he said it was to find me…” he murmured, filled with dread at the thought of what his sentimental stupidity might have caused.

Swiftly, Newt took out his wand, uttered a spell that made the pendant float, then threw it out the window, far into the countryside.

“…Let’s hope whatever magic was involved in this, only Grindelwald was aware of it,” Newt said, not sounding very sure of himself.  

“Why would that help? Isn’t he dangerous?” asked Credence.

The wizard showed him the newspaper he had been reading.

“He’s imprisoned. After we thought you’d died, his true form was unveiled. I can’t help but think it was way too easy not to be a part of his plan, but… At least right now, he is behind bars. If he escapes, we’ll be far from here by the time he finds that necklace.”

Credence felt nervous, cold sweat dripping down his spine as he thought of the sensation from earlier. _Being watched._ But despite all of that, there was a worry that was nagging him, a thought he couldn’t quite chase. He wiped the tears from his swollen cheeks, then asked in a soft voice: “…Is Mr. Graves okay?” 

The fear evaded from Newt’s face to be replaced with an unprecedented tenderness.

“Here, let me read this to you,” he offered gently.

 

* * *

 

### 

December 24th  1926

INTENATIONAL NEWS & POLITICAL ANALYSIS 

**AMERICAN AUROR P. GRAVES FOUND AND FREED**

“Since the MACUSA TRANSFIGURATION CATASTROPHE was brought to light — through which it was exposed that terrorist GELLERT GRINDELWALD had impersonated Auror, Director, and Department Head PERCIVAL GRAVES for an estimated time of two months _(more information about the scandal in our previous issue),_ one question had been burning the lips of every American wizard: Was the real Percival Graves alive; and if so, _where_?

It is to be noted that the Auror is a renowned member of the American Wizarding community, recognized and appraised for his military exploits in his youth, followed by further victories in the streets of New York and beyond as he brought dangerous criminals to heel _(such as Aurel O’Connor, Quentin Brook, and self-proclaimed Harlem Terrorizer Richard Harrold),_ altogether playing a key role in reducing the wizard crime rate of the country by 30%. As such, finding him became an utmost priority as soon as his missing status was uncovered, especially amongst his own Department, that of Magical Law Enforcement.

Fortunately, the MACUSA was quicker in this endeavor than it had been to expose Grindelwald’s masquerade; for on December 8th, Graves was FOUND ALIVE by a team of investigators led by the President herself, as well as Auror Goldstein (now renowned for her role in the discovery of the Catastrophe and in the stopping of the Manhattan Obscurius Attack). Graves had been kept in a cage sealed with multiple locks of very powerful magic _(‘the potency of which were fortunately weakened by Grindelwald’s imprisonment’_ , commented President Picquery in _The New York Ghost_ ) and has as of today been restored to his home and functions at the MACUSA.

While some might be dubitative of the capacities of the Auror after two months in complete isolation, and further point out that getting kidnapped in the first place should put his abilities in question, the astonishing progress the MACUSA’s forces have made since his return speak for themselves.  The past week saw the arrest of Maurice Delabrès, Cedric Keith, and prevention of a mass terrorist attack in Chicago. Clearly, the American wizards can rest more peacefully with Graves back in position.

 

 ~  _Isabella J. Morrison_

* * *

 

 

Credence couldn’t help the lovestruck smile that dawned on his lips. He was so proud of him. _This_ was the Percival Graves he’d adored — his mentor, his idol, his protector. Strong, and kind, and just in the face of evil. In a quiet voice, he asked Newt if he could keep the picture that accompanied the article, and the wizard was happy to cut it out for him. It was _moving_ , which surprised Credence at first — but for once, he was glad for a little bit of magic. There he was, in his formal suit, all serious and… _grave_ looking. But it was him.

The _real_ him. 

Credence held the picture to his heart, hugging it tight against him. 

For the first time in months, his lips stretched in a genuine smile.

 

   

 

 

They packed lightly. Modesty, because she did not have much to bring. Percival, because he didn’t expect to stay long.

Although, in truth, he wasn’t sure what he expected at all.

The clothes, the books, the money; they packed it all in a small case of thin leather, light as a feather. Yet still, their steps to the station were heavy, and slow. Weighed down by the baggage they did carry at all times, the one which would never fit in a bag.

Perhaps they should have talked about it. There was a lot to talk about, a lot they could have learnt from the other, or at least related with. In a way, they had both lost a person akin to family (three people, in Modesty’s case), and were about to find out whether that loss was only a temporary nightmare, or a burden that would now accompany their every step.   

They _should_ have talked, but both of them shared a flaw that is so often found in the hearts of strong people: the fear of their own vulnerability. Talking about the ghost between them, about their pain, their fear, their anguish; that would have required to make an opening in the shell of their strengths, to let their raw pain and fragile emotions be bare to the eyes of an almost stranger. And that was too scary. Too dangerous.

Maybe that was why they had both loved Credence so much. A boy so vulnerable, who needed strong people like them to shelter him from the evils of the world. But an empath as well, who could feel what people felt without needing them to open up, and accepted it all without judgement.

Credence wasn’t there, though. He was everything they shared, their very bond impersonated, but he wasn’t there, and beneath all the well-meaning lies and brave self-convincing, neither of them were sure if he ever would be again.

So they stayed strong. They didn’t talk. In Percival, that was manifested with the persona he always wore for work — somber, serious. A man of iron. Modesty’s shell was more colorful, though deep down, it served the same purpose. She was insolent, rebellious, carefree. No teenager yet, but her attitude alone could have fooled anyone into thinking she’d already reached the disgraceful troubled years of adolescence.

  

They embarked on a train filled with witches and wizards, to a grand edifice in Maine that served as storage for hundreds of portkeys, leading to capitals all around the world. Percival had never been there himself, as his department usually relied on portkeys of their own making when they needed any. But this time, he did not wish anyone from the department to know where he was going (and most importantly, with whom), and Augusta’s Portkey Center was perfect for that kind of discretion. After all, it was used to go just about anywhere _,_ with any whom _._  

Percival’s status and money could have allowed them a large compartment all to themselves, but in this same intent of discretion, they settled on second class seats. He figured Modesty would not mind.

There was a something ironical in how their present situation mirrored that of Newt and Credence, in this exact same moment, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. But whatever joke fate and the universe had chosen to play on them by making their paths so alike, while so far away, somehow both parallel yet merging in the same direction — they were only the butt of it, and remained ignorant of the dramatic irony that hung above their heads. 

And thus while Newt was reading his magazines, Percival absorbed himself in the books he had brought with him — the only two from MACUSA’s library that spoke of obscuri with more details than their standard definition. 

The first was a history of Non-Maj persecution of wizards across the ages, and its various consequences; while the second was an autobiography of Helena Növengard, a witch who had lived through the dark times of the Salem trials. She was best known for having saved a great deal of witches from burning thanks to her invention of a very realistic kind of harmless fire, but there was a large chapter dedicated to her youngest son, Connor, who had become an obscurial and died at the age of 9.

If Percival didn’t learn anything about visions, or a possibility to survive the blast of thirty skilled aurors aiming a lethal spell in a same direction, he did learn much about the destructive nature of obscuri, and how they devoured their hosts from within. It pained him immensely to read through these lines, to know that Credence had suffered through so much, all this time, when he had been blind to it all. 

Had he been fair to himself, he would have conceded that he _had_ noticed Credence’s pain, only not concluded the right cause. And he would also have seen that no one could have predicted any obscurial would survive to see adulthood, given the past record. But Percival was not feeling fair _._

Blaming himself was easier than to be left with no one to blame.

He was in deep in these thoughts when he heard Modesty suddenly start to sing.

 

_“My momma, your momma, gonna catch a witch,_

_My momma, your momma, flying on a switch.”_

Percival frowned, weary of the other people around. And even though he didn’t know that song, he could tell he was not going to like it. At all. The young girl, however, did not seem to get the hint (or, more probably, did not care about it) and continued to chant innocently, her legs swinging back and forth.

_“My momma, your momma, witches never cry,_

_My momma, your momma, witches gonna die~!”_

“Can you stop?” Graves finally snapped.

“No,” she retorted, not missing a beat. “I like singing. And it’s not like there’s anything else to do.” At that, she let out a deep, dramatic sigh. Percival _had_ given her drawing material, but it seemed she had already grown bored with it.

“Can’t you at least pick a song that’s not about _killing witches_ , then?” Graves suggested coldly. “In case you haven’t noticed, this train is filled with witches and wizards who don’t appreciate brats gleefully singing about their imminent death.”

“…But Credence loved that song,” Modesty let out sadly, her head lowering in her best impression of a kicked puppy face. 

It worked, of course — anything involving Credence was a direct pang to Percival’s heart, and he suddenly was overwhelmed with guilt and sadness. _Shit._ He cleared his throat, and was about to apologize, when he noticed Modesty’s face.

The kid was fucking _grinning._

“You little…” he began, his tone low and threatening.

“No swearing, Mr Grumpy Pants,” the girl scolded mockingly. “There are _children_ present.”  

And honestly, Percival would not have cared the least about Modesty’s innocence after such a foul move, but there _was_ a mother and her baby sitting only a couple of feet from them.

_Damn her._

“… _idiot_ ,” he finished icily.  

Modesty let out a snicker at that, before commenting: “ _Woaw_. Creative.”

“Right. Now shut up,” Percival ordered, summoning all the authority he possessed (and he was supposed to have lots, damn it!). “Or trust that I will make you.”

The girl was about to speak again, but Percival immediately raised his wand — and this, finally, made her close her mouth reluctantly.

 

With a sigh, Percival looked outside the window. He had thought Modesty and Credence had a lot in common at their first meeting — this aura all the Second Salemers children shared, as well as a way of smiling and frowning only her and her oldest brother had in common — but apart from these aspects, they were polar opposites. Where Modesty was all fiery insolence and impertinence, Credence had been always so respectful, and obedient to a fault.

He couldn’t deny that he had loved that aspect of him, as well. How the boy would have trusted Percival’s word without a second thought and obeyed his every request, and how proud Graves had felt each time his influence had overthrown that of Mary Lou, even for just a day. 

Yet he also knew that this respect and obedience had been the boy's demise when Grindelwald had taken advantage of it, and for that, Percival hated himself for not having warned Credence better.

As these now useless regrets roamed in his mind, the words of the house elf came back to him.  

_‘There is potent sorcery to be found in the vicinity of an obscurus, some your specie has long forgotten.’_

He wasn’t sure what the creature had meant, but felt a rage boil inside him as he thought back to how the elf had vanished without a further word of explanation, when it was _clear_ he knew more.

…Or perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps it was all just bullshit from a senile elf who needed to relay his babysitting job.

But what if?

What if there was a truth to it?

What if Credence _was_ alive?

Percival knew this wasn’t his reason talking. He was only finding excuses to believe in the happiest version of reality. The fairest, too. How could it be that Percival had survived the depth of Grindelwald’s dungeon, when Credence, who had never done anything wrong in his life, should die?

It was unfair. Deeply so. But that didn’t make it impossible. Life _was_ unfair; his job existed precisely because of that. And even in the most painful stories, there were no happy endings — he had learnt that lesson long ago.

No. In a world that did not care about fairness, justice, happiness, or beauty, it was a lot more probable that the boy he'd loved was now dead.

And a lot less probable that he was safe, alive, in a Scottish train station.

 

   

 

Credence managed to sleep for a little while before they arrived in Edinburgh. He dreamt he was in New York again, and that Mr. Graves would hug him tight and play with his hair. He called him a ‘ _catastrophe’_ and patted his back, just like he had back then. With more love in his voice than all the icy _‘sweet boy’_ s Mary Lou had ever thrown at him. 

Newt did not have the heart to wake him up until the train had reached its final destination. As soon as his eyes opened, the migraine and nausea subsided — a stark reminder that his fever had not stop in the least. Newt had cooked him a cocktail medicinal herbs, but evidently, they did not help much.

They got off the train onto the station, which was only lit by a couple of gaslights in the middle of the night. When Credence looked around in the darkness, he was overcome with a strange feeling of déjà vu, and the demon in his guts twitched ominously.

There was not a sound as they walked towards the exit, only accompanied by a dozen of muggles, but Credence was certain he felt something.

There was the feeling of before — that of being observed — but  in addition to that, he was practically sure he could feel dark auras looming over them.

They were not the only magical beings of the station, and whoever else was there, was not their friend.

Credence took the wizard’s sleeve and whispered in his ear, as low as he could manage: "Mr. Newt, I think someone is following us." 

"...H-how do you...?" he asked, confused, but stopped when he saw the worry in Credence’s stare. 

 

And that was when it happened.

Credence wasn’t sure how he reacted so quickly, but suddenly, a spike of aggressive intensity rose from one of the auras. Then out of the darkness, someone shouted:

“AVADA KEDA—”

Pure instinct taking over, Credence ducked to throw Newt out of the emerald ray. He did not know what the words meant, or what the spell was.

But he knew Death when he saw it. 

Before either of them had the time to think of anything else, Newt apparated them out of the way. But in the twirling chaos, Credence noticed something. 

A small detail. 

A mark on a vest.

The same as Grindelwald’s necklace. 

From the corner where Newt had hidden them, Credence started to fume. Heaps of heavy black smoke emanated from his body as his entire being was filled with nothing but _rage_ , the same he had felt when he’d been called a _freak, unnatural, useless_.

All the rage accumulated from years of abuse, years of solitude, of betrayal, of _pain,_ all concentrated in one, sole focus.

_Kill them._

None of Newt’s protestation or calming words were enough to sooth the sheer fury that took over him, nor the darkness that filled his voice as he articulated through the smoke: “I am… sick… and tired… of this damned… _MAGIC_!”

And, under the quiet snow of this Scottish Christmas Eve, an obscurus exploded in the night sky.

 

   

 

 

Percival puked. 

It made Modesty roll her eyes, both from disgust and disdain. “And you told _me_ to hang in there! Old people are so weaak,” she moaned insolently.  

“For the love of god, Modesty,” he began — and was about to tell her to shut up in a colorful way when he noticed something in the distance.

A being of black smoke, and the light of fired charms.

Modesty’s face decomposed as well when she realized it, and if Percival had needed any confirmation as to what he was seeing, her expression made it crystal clear.

Letting his brain turn on professional auto-drive, he took out his wand, and carved out a small bunker in the thick wall close them. It had a heavy metal door no one but him would be able to open from outside.

“Stay there. Don’t move,” he ordered, any hint of humor or negotiation gone from his face. “If the door disappears before I return, run back to the portkey.”

“What!” Modesty protested. “No, you can’t!” 

“You don’t even know how to use a damn wand, Modesty, I’m not putting you in harm’s way, now _get in the fucking bunker!_ ”

His tone and sharp logic seemed for once to convince her immediately, and she got in the opening quickly, closing it behind her.  

 

Not wasting a further second, Percival apparated inside the station. There, he felt his blood pumping as he took in the sight of the battlefield. A gigantic obscurus whirled and tore through the air. It was nothing comparable to the subtle trail of smoke his books had described.

To his left, a man who wore Grindelwald’s emblem was using the Cruciatus curse on a younger wizard with curly hair and a striped scarf. Percival raised his wand to stop the Curser, but before he could do anything else, the Obscurus rushed to rip through the fanatic’s body, leaving behind nothing but a bloody corpse laying lifelessly on the platform. 

Percival took a step back and looked around. Rays of magic and oozing smoke were blasting through the air in all direction, bright and confusing in a way Graves hadn’t experienced in years, but he thought he could make out two sides. Two highly  _unequal_ sides: on one, one witch and two wizards, not wearing any sort of uniform. On the other, eleven of Grindelwald’s minions — minus the one who had just been killed.

It was hard to tell on which the obscurus was, and for a second Percival might have thought it to be pure, chaotic violence. But after observing more carefully, it seemed the darkness did have its allegiance. It actively sought to kill Grindelwald’s men, paid no mind to two of the regular wizards, and seemed to protect the young man who had taken a blast of crucio a second ago — or at least, killed any dark wizard that attempted to attack him.

For the line between friends and foes seemed blurry; or maybe the chaotic explosions were simply impossible to contain. Before he had a chance to get up, the freckled wizard’s leg was torn through in the crossfire of a blast destined to kill one of the terrorists. On the other side of the platform, the witch with frizzy hair dodged a lethal blow at the last second, and the third wizard also seemed to be struggling between both fanatics and the deadly smoke.

 

Everything in Percival could tell that this was a _catastrophe_ — they risked the same disaster as the one that had torn New York City, but when the third wizard shouted: “We gotta stop this bloody thing!”, the only thought Graves could muster was a helpless: ‘ _NO.’_

 

And he did not allow his brain the time to consider that there might be nothing left of the boy he loved in that raging darkness, that there might never have been in the first place, or that there never would again.

He did not think of anything but only _felt —_ a piercing, vibrant, complete sensation of despair, and he shouted: “CREDENCE!” 

As soon as his words echoed in the night, the obscurus stopped and hung in the air, making it seem like time had interrupted its course for the length of an instant.

And in the midst of the chaos and dark fumes, Percival saw him.

He was ethereal, sickly, broken — but it was _him_.

Without thinking, Graves ran in his direction, uncaring of the obscurus that now seemed to awaken and tear at his skin, uncaring of the pain he felt and the wounds he saw or the blood and smoke that obstructed his view.   

He ran as fast as he could, ran right in the the eye of the hurricane, and jumped to take Credence in his arms.  

For a moment he couldn’t breathe, everything was blood and darkness and _pain_ , so much pain, a pain sharper than anything he’d ever felt — but if Percival had ever been certain of anything in his life, it was that _he_ _would_ _not let go_. Not now, not when they were finally together again at the end of it all. He would not ever let go again.

“I’m here,” he sobbed, practically suffocating. “I’m here. _Please,_  come back to me.”

 

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, Percival holding onto Credence and begging him to come back, the fuming darkness furiously tearing at their bonded bodies.

But eventually, the smoke grew thinner, the pain less sharp. Until finally, there was nothing left but the light of the moon, and in the wounded man’s embrace, Credence.

Human.

Safe.

 _Alive_. 

Percival couldn’t believe it. It was true, it had been true all along. Credence was there and he was alive, and it seemed like nothing else on earth or beyond could matter more than this. Through his tears, the man let out a laugh of disbelief, and on his face shone the first ray of genuine happiness he had felt in months.

 

 

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered, tears of pain and joy rolling down his cheeks, as he took the boy’s pale face between his hands.

“I thought you hated me,” Credence whispered back, and that had to be the most absurd thing Percival had ever heard. Never had he been more certain of how much this boy meant to him. Reverent, no, _worshipping_ , he caressed his delicate features, and lost in the bliss of the moment, dropped flocks of kisses on his cheek, jaw, collarbone, even the corner of his lip, leaving Credence flustered and warm. 

But the blush which crept on his pale skin only gave more reason for Percival’s giddy delight. 

_He was alive._

 

   

 

Afar from their teary embrace, Newt laid on the ground, wincing. His leg was oozing with blood, and the small attempt he made at sitting up sent spasms of sharp pain throughout his body. 

The woman with frizzed hair who had helped them in the fight walked towards him and commented, her eyes fixed on the reunion: “Well, this just got real queer, real fast.”

Recognizing the voice, Newt’s eyes went wide.

 _How?_  

 _How could_ she _be here?_

_How could she have known?_

“L—Leta?” he asked, the shock making his voice shake. “W-what are you —”

“Calm down, Newt,” she interrupted nonchalantly, as though they had seen each other only the day before, and he was just being his usual, overreacting self. “I just helped you against a bunch of fanatic assassins, and almost got killed by your new… _pet_ , in the process, so don’t give me that look.” 

“Right. And y—you just so happened to pass by,” Newt retorted icily.

“No,” she answered simply, not attempting to hide it. “But before we get into that, how about we help Alphonse take care of the muggles this little shit-show probably just scarred for life?”

He didn’t know who Alphonse was, nor what the bloody hell _Leta Lestrange_ was doing here. But what Newt _did_ know was that they had just been attacked by Grindelwald’s servants, and that a man whose appearance Grindelwald had previously taken was now holding Credence in his arms. 

“I — I can’t. Not now, first, let me—” he stammered as he tried to get up, but the pain that shot through him was much too intense for him to move any further.  

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Newt,” Leta cursed, and she brought her wand to his leg, healing it in a spell before he could protest. Wasting not a second further, Newt got up to his feet and ran towards Credence and the man who looked like Percival Graves. 

The boy seemed traumatized, fascinated, and blissfully content all at once, his eyes locked onto the other man’s, whose hands were caressing his cheeks soothingly. They were both in a pitiful state, all torn clothes and bleeding wounds. But at least, they were both alive, which was more than Hanifah's sister had been graced with after doing something about as reckless as what Percival had just done.

Newt pointed his wand towards him, and tried his best to sound menacing when he asked: “Who are you?”

The snicker he heard from Leta indicated that he had probably _not_ done a successful job in that endeavor.

_Damn it._

The man, however, grew serious in an instant, and looked right into Newt’s eyes when he answered: “Percival Graves.” 

And while he did sound honest, Newt knew better than to trust his gut feeling. “How can we know that for sure?” he retorted, doing his best to keep his composure. 

That, however, seemed to take the wizard aback. “A… Ask me anything,” he offered. “Or do you have veritaserum?”

But before Newt could think of any test, Leta shouted: “Revelio!” 

Only the silent echoes of the night answered her spell.

“Well, there you go,” she declared with a smug smile. “It’s him.”

“Could still be polyjuice…” Newt protested anxiously.  

“Well, then I guess I’ll just Imper—” she began, but was stopped by Newt’s horrified “ _Leta_!” and Percival rising to his feet, preparing his wand to fight off the curse. 

And things might have turned terribly sour, had Credence not shouted: “It’s him!”

The three wizards stared at him blankly.   

“I… know it’s him,” he assured, his voice a murmur — but one which had not a single drop of hesitation in it. “The other man had a different aura. Back then I… I didn’t know what the change meant but… Now I do. It’s him. Please… don’t fight.”

 

With the help of Percival’s tight grip, he got up. Newt wished he knew what the look they two men shared meant, for he sensed it was loaded with many silent words, but none in a language _he_ could understand. He was about to ask, when another voice resonated from the station’s entrance.  

 _“Credence!”_ a young girl cried, running towards the raven haired boy.

“Modesty?” Percival asked, fuming. “I told you to stay in —”

But all his anger and fear for the girl’s safety evaporated when she drew Credence in a tight hug — filled with teary declarations of _“I missed you so much”,_ “ _I knew you weren’t dead, that’s what I told everyone, I knew you weren’t dead!”_ and heartfelt apologies.  

Credence had mentioned Modesty once, very briefly — only that she was his sister, really — but it was obvious from the scene before their eyes that the two shared a bond of the deepest kind. It was terribly endearing, and Newt couldn't help but feeling a little emotional at the thought that him and Theseus would probably never have such a pure, loving relationship. 

 

When the man Newt assumed to be Alphonse came back, he shot an air of disgust at the scene the two siblings made, visibly nowhere near as impressed as Newt was, and went directly to Leta. “There. I obliviated the muggles and reopened the doors. No thanks to _you_.” 

“Thanks Alphonse,” the woman answered, “and shut up.”

“You’re sure you got everyone?” Newt asked anxiously.

“Look at our little Newt," Leta mocked, "all invested in Muggle Secrecy! Did the States do that to you?” 

And the blush that crept on his freckled cheeks probably answered that question with crystal clarity. He didn’t ask how she knew he’d been to the States, and instead went to retrieve his case, hugging it tight against him.

Whenever he felt alone, or out of place, just like he did right now, he had to remember. _No matter where you are, so long as you carry your home and your best friends in your suitcase, you’ll never be alone, or out of place._

“Anyway,” Alphonse muttered grumpily, “we can’t stay here. More of them will come soon.”

“How do you know this?” Newt asked suspiciously.

“And who are _you_ anyway?” Percival demanded, apparently hating how little control he had of the situation.

“We can explain everything once we’ve reached safety,” Leta answered, uncharacteristically serious. “Come with me.”  

And Newt wasn’t sure if it was curiosity, suspicion, helplessness, or downright folly that motivated their steps — but so they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellp. This chapter had a lot of tears. But boy, am I glad these two idiots are finally reunited. I couldn't wait. The next chapters will be all the more pleasant to write about. 
> 
> Also, people will cry a little less. Always a plus. 
> 
>  
> 
> The good news: I sent my tablet for reparation, so by the time the next chapter is out, there should hopefully be a couple more illustrations.
> 
> The bad news (that sounds a bit dramatic) (it's not that bad) (it's more of a mildly inconvenient news): I don't have a beta reader, and since English is not my mother tongue, my syntax can get a little clumsy or overcomplicated. Apologies for that. If you're interested in helping me out, and are ideally a native speaker (though fluent is fine) do send me a message on tumblr: phy-be.tumblr.com 
> 
> It's really just to keep my french brain from eloping in convoluted sentence land. No need for any complex critique.  
> I mean. Unless you're into that.  
> I'm always a slut for constructive criticism. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Your comments and kudos give me life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves is tired. Credence is pining. Newt offers unorthodox religious guidance. Modesty still has no interest in being polite or respectful towards authority figures. She also discovers the joys of trolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the adorable xJuniperx for correcting this chapter, and to the great thebiggerpicture23 for the two first ones ♡ You guys are the best!
> 
> My tablet got repaired, so this now has more art: chapter one and two now each have an additional illustration, and you'll find two sketches in this one. Enjoy!

### CHAPTER THREE — Unknown

   

        It was a weird night. And Percival was _not_ in his most stellar condition.

For one, he had recklessly ended up in the living room of two unknown, suspicious looking wizards. His clothes were torn and stained with blood. His hair was a mess. He ached in muscles he had not even known to exist. And, _fuck_ : he was tired.

Had he been in that situation a week ago, he would probably have torn down a wall in frustration; before falling in a short coma. But as of now, all these worries and inconveniences blurred into the background of his preoccupations, like a faint white noise that bothered him slightly, but was altogether insignificant.

Graves felt calm. And he hadn’t felt calm in a very long time.

It had, of course, everything to do with the boy who had now fallen asleep on his lap. His little sister had refused to part from him since their embrace at the station, and she now slept as well, lounged heavily on top of him. For the first time since Percival had met her, she looked her age. He contemplated the innocent picture they made, a soft smile dawning on his lips. They would need to move soon; couldn’t stay in a place as unsafe and uncertain as this living room, not when there were fanatics outside and a greater threat inside Credence. But for now, Percival allowed himself to be calmed by the harmless serenity which radiated from them both.

This tranquility was tainted by the ghostly paleness of Credence’s skin, and the feverish sweat which pearled upon his forehead. His hair stuck to it, not unlike streams of ink on immaculate paper. As Percival caressed it absently, he realized the young man’s once impeccable bowl cut had grown to become more disheveled. It gave him a boyish air Mary Lou Barebone would never have allowed, even if it suited him. Especially because it suited him, perhaps.

Graves had not fully registered the death of that despicable woman when he’d first read about the events during his absence, much too distraught by Credence’s presumed death to care about anything else. But as he now realized it truly, he couldn’t help but find an immense satisfaction in the knowledge that she was now rotting in the hell she had so fiercely threatened Credence with. The boy would need time to heal from the wounds her punishments had left behind, but at least, the scars he now bore would be his last. Percival would make sure of that.

The young man with the striped scarf spoke to the brown-skinned witch for a long time, their hushed voices keeping Graves from eavesdropping on the conversation (though to be honest, he was both too tired and too engrossed in his contemplation of Credence’s peaceful features to care). They eventually stopped talking, and there was a long silence before the woman left the room — probably to join her companion in the kitchen. The wizard let his body fall heavily in an armchair, not far from the sofa the sleeping siblings (and their human pillow) sat on.

Percival was not anywhere near as suspicious of him as he was of the other two (though of course, that was a long way from trusting him still), primarily because Credence had protected him in the battle, and because his first instinct had been to ask Percival who he was and if he could prove it. That was more than any of the aurors from his department had done in the two months Grindelwald had taken his place.

The second reason he felt more inclined to trust him was that he’d heard him answer to the name ‘ _Newt’_ , and was pretty sure he recognized these curly locks from somewhere.

“Are you Mister Newton Scamander?” he asked directly, keeping his voice low not to wake the sleeping pair.

The young man raised his eyebrows in surprise, then cocked his head coyly and answered: “Hum — yes, that would be me.”

“Tina told me about you,” Percival said, answering the question his shocked expression implied. In truth, Tina had not been the only one to speak the name of Newt Scamander since he had returned to the force. The British wizard and his magical creatures had caused quite a commotion amongst MACUSA employees. But Tina, unlike the others, seemed to have developed quite the crush on him — which wasn’t something she often did. In fact, the blushing, love gazing, awkwardly laughing Tina was not one Percival could remember ever seeing before. She was usually all about work, work, work — her sister, and more work.

The mention of her name brought a warm smile to Newt’s face, and he asked: “How is she doing?”

“Oh, she’s kicking ass. As usual.”

They both laughed at that; somewhat awkwardly, perhaps, but Percival thought that given the circumstances, he could be excused for not being on top of his small talk game. (Which, really, wasn’t all that great to begin with.)

After some silence, he asked the question that had sat in the back of his mind for the past hour: “…How did you do it?”

“Do what?” the young man asked, sincerely clueless.

Percival gulped before he explained: “Bring him back?”

“Ah, I… I didn’t.”

The older man frowned. What kind of cryptic answer was that? “So who did?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone _did_. Most like, he survived the blow.”

Percival looked at Credence, not bothering to hide his pride. He had always found the boy amazing, in how he managed to remain so innocent and kind despite all the pain and evil he was continuously subjected to, and in his capacity to survive in the most hostile environments. But since this mess had begun, Graves was discovering new reasons to be impressed by him every day. The fact that he had survived to be 21 with an obscurus weighing on his back, how devastatingly strong said obscurus had been, and now, that he had lived past the combined blast of more than twenty aurors… “Then how did you find him?” he asked, his eyes rising back to Newt.  

“It was more _him_ who found _me_ , really…” the British man admitted, before endeavoring to narrate how he had discovered Credence at his door, neither of them knowing how he’d ended up there. Percival listened to the tale thoughtfully.

_How strange._

“The more I try to understand what is happening,” he muttered, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose, “the more mysterious this mess becomes…”

The amount of inexplicable elements was piling up in a very frustrating manner; from Modesty’s premonitions, her photographic memory, their perfect timing — to Credence’s persistence to survive against all odds, Grindelwald’s men chasing him, and now, his apparition on the threshold of Newt Scamander’s boat cabin. Clearly, these elements had to fit together somehow, but as of now, they were missing the clues that would give a meaning to this chaos; and this was perhaps the part of an investigation Percival despised the most.

 

        He wanted things to _make sense_. Still, that frustration and cluelessness was a small price to pay in the face of finding out Credence was alive. For that reason, Percival spoke up again, in a much softer voice: “Still… Thank you, Mister Scamander.”

Newt looked surprised again. “Uh — For what?”

Percival gave him a rare smile. “For taking care of him.”

“It’s… It’s not a big deal,” the wizard stuttered, blushing a little bit.

That made Graves frown. Was he just being politely humble, or was he really reckless enough to think that taking an unknown obscurial into his care was _‘not a big deal’_? (From Tina’s tales, he guessed it was probably the latter.) “But it is,” he assured firmly. “He was a stranger to you, and dangerous, at that.”

“He’s not… _dangerous_ ,” Newt retorted, pouting. Percival wondered if he saw Credence as another of the creatures he so fiercely defended. “’Just has a dangerous passenger in his backseat.”

Graves looked at him pensively. He was trying to enjoy the moment of quiet, to allow himself to revel in the knowledge that Credence was alive for just a bit longer, but he’d always been too much of a pessimist. The worry of how long this happiness would last left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

“…Do you know?” he asked quietly. “How to dissociate them?”

“No,” Newt answered, and they sighed in unison — one regretful, the other disappointed. “Not in a way that… allows the host to survive, anyway,” he continued. “But we were going to see someone who — ”

The end of that sentence was interrupted by the other wizards coming back from the kitchen.

“As it turns out, I don’t have any tea,” said the man in an overly dramatic way. It was perhaps meant to be humorous, but it only succeeded in making Percival itch to hex him.

“You put England to shame,” the woman scolded.

“I’m Scottish, and in Scotland.”

“Details.”

At that point, Percival was rolling his eyes. He didn’t have the time, nor the patience to listen to their pointless banter.

“Anyway,” the woman went on with a large, sarcastic smile, “can I interest any of you in some of this dubious looking liquor — ”

“If you could just explain who the hell you are,” Percival interrupted coolly, “that’d be great.”

“Jeeze, dad,” she complained. “Chill out.”

Graves raised a single eyebrow, but his expression alone was enough to turn the girl’s insolent air in an anxious frown.   

“Yeah, and who are _you_ even?” the man retorted pointedly.

That got him a look from his friend which meant something along the lines of: _‘do you seriously not know who this guy is, his face has been all over the newspaper for weeks now’._

From Percival, a cold, implacable stare that said: _‘I’ve asked you first, and if I have to ask twice, you will seriously regret it.’_

Newt just shifted awkwardly.

“I’m Leta Lestrange,” the woman spoke up, perhaps trying to salvage the terrible first impression they were making on Percival. “You may know me from the family line obsessed with pure blood, whose stupid name is only matched by the stupidity of its traditions.”

Percival did not.

“These days, my relatives have actively been supporting Grindelwald’s antics.”

If he had been suspicious before, the mention of that name instantly made his muscles tense, and he instinctively reached for his wand inside his robe’s pocket, his other hand gripping the arm of the sofa so tight he practically ripped the fabric.

“I _obviously_ disagree with their allegiance,” Leta continued. “Else none of you would be alive, by now.”

Percival did not believe that for a second. The girl and her friend were both outnumbered _and_ overpowered. It would definitely not have been in her best interest to even attempt to kill them, especially if she wanted to gain Credence’s trust and use his powers for the _‘greater good’._

That being said, her remark seemed to be more a sin of overconfidence than the bluff of a cornered enemy. In addition to that, they had apparently been on Newt’s side and almost got killed in the fight (though ‘ _apparently’_ and ‘ _almost’_ were the key words here, as Percival had learnt that anything could be faked by someone dedicated enough). In addition to that, they had obliviated the muggles (Percival had checked); which was in contradiction with Grindelwald’s entire credo.

Keeping these thoughts in mind, Percival did not say anything. But he stayed alert, and his hand did not leave his pocket.

“However, that is a secret, and I intend to keep it that way,” Leta added in an attempt to sound threatening. Graves was unimpressed. “I am a spy. Of sorts. My relatives believe I’ve finally grown to accept all their bigoted idiocies, so while I’m not exactly asked for speeches at family dinners, they do give me tasks, and some info. Which I report to Albus Dumbledore.”

Newt straightened up at that. Evidently, she had omitted to mention this in their conversation earlier.

“He got your letter, Newt,” Leta said as she gave him an envelope which most likely contained the professor’s answer. It was sealed in red and read ‘ _Newton’_ in a neat handwriting. “He was worried, and asked me to look out for attacks against you. I found out this one and got on the task force in time. Thankfully.”

“ _Thankfully_?” Alphonse repeated, dubitative. “It’s not like we were of any help. All we did was almost get killed, and obliviate a bunch of stupid muggles.”

“And _this_ charming gentleman is Alphonse Black,” Leta muttered. “He is in roughly the same situation as mine.”

“Except I learnt how to lie a lot better and a lot earlier than Miss Teen-age rebel over there.”

They went to expose their knowledge of the situation — which wasn’t much more than what Percival had already deduced, really. A useful bit, though, was regarding how the assassins had known to expect them at the station. It was apparently thanks to a necklace Grindelwald had given Credence. The thought of Grindelwald’s mark on him made a dark, possessive anger rise in Percival, and though he did not say anything, his grip on the sofa tightened until his knuckles turned white. Though fortunately, while they might have been able to trace their train and its destination, Newt had thrown the necklace out as soon as he’d discovered it (smart). It would take a while before Grindelwald’s men found them again.

Somewhere in the course of the explanation, Modesty woke up, shortly followed by Credence. He clung to Percival’s arm, still looked half asleep, and his hair was a mess from being toyed with, which resulted in a pretty adorable combination. Graves gave him a tender smile. He blushed a little bit at that, and quickly hid his face by pressing it against the man’s shoulder.

Modesty just frowned at everyone grumpily, her arms crossed in disapproval. Whatever she got from the situation, it clearly did not seem worth keeping her awake, as far as she was concerned. And to be fair, Percival imagined their technical discussion of schemes and speculations probably did not make much sense to a child with little to no knowledge of the magical world.

 

        Once they were done, Leta leaned back in the chair she had found, and said: “Anyway. We said our part. Now I do wonder, Mister Graves, how did _you_ know where to find the Obscurial, _just_ when they were getting attacked.”

Percival would have paid good money to know the answer to that himself. But he knew better than to demonstrate his lack of knowledge to someone he did not trust in the least. Instead, he resorted to one of his specialties: bluffing.

“You may already trust me enough to tell me all of this, Miss Lestrange, but I tend to need a bit more than a glance and a conversation before I find it safe to disclose secret information of potentially lethal amplitude,” he said, his voice perfectly even and in control.

Leta blushed, shock and humiliation shining through. “But we saved you!” she protested, losing her cool.

“Actually, I — I think Credence did,” Newt pointed out with a hesitant finger. That earned him a dark look from Leta which made him gulp, but he did not apologize.

“Quite,” Percival confirmed with a cold smile. “All you did was _‘was almost get killed, and obliviate a bunch of stupid muggles,’_ remember?”

“Wait — so you think that after we told _you all we know,_ you — you can just — get up and _leave_? Without explaining anything?”

Percival got up.

“Yes, I can,” he stated simply, then gave his free hand to Newt. A second later, the four of them had disapparated.  

They ended up ten blocks from Alphonse’s house, next to a phone station he’d noted on the way there. Newt looked terrified, but relieved. Credence seemed equally terrified, and very confused. Modesty jumped in the air, a big grin on her face, and exclaimed: “That was _awesome_!”

Percival shook his head as he placed his arm around Credence reassuringly. “I can’t believe _this_ is how I get your approval.”

“Well, duh. It’s the first time you’ve actually been cool instead of a _loser_ ,” the girl retorted. He gritted his teeth. Apparently, one second of praise was as much as he was going to get.

Newt placed his case on the ground, and went to search in it — it was apparently under an Undetectable Extension Charm or something similar. Probably where he kept his infamous ‘creatures’. He got out of it with an old but sturdy looking broom, and said: “Given that the next Hogwarts Express won’t depart until the end of the winter break, I’d planned to do the rest by broom. You’ll have to get in the case, everyone.”

Percival supposed that, like in Ilvermorny, one could not apparate to Hogwarts. From what Tina had told him, he was a little surprised Newt did not offer to do the trip on the back of an exotic beast — but he was definitely grateful. They needed to remain as discrete as possible, and the local magical authorities would not mind a lone broom driver in the middle of the night. A dangerous creature roaming the skies, on the other hand…

“ _In_ the case?” asked Modesty, who had probably not noticed Newt getting the broom out just now. “How will we fit? And you’re gonna ride a _broom_ for real?”

“Magic!” Newt simply explained with a bright, childish grin.

He needed to say no more. Modesty jumped right in — probably hurting herself in the landing, given the faint ‘ _ouch’_ that followed. Where his sister was nothing but enthusiasm, Credence was scared and apprehensive. His eyes went back and forth between the case and the broom, as if he was trying to decide which seemed evilest. Normally, Percival would not have pushed him outside of his comfort zone, but time was not on their side, and they would never get to this professor in time unless they used magic. He brought one hand to his cheek, encouraging him to meet his eyes rather than the magical objects, and whispered confidently: “It’ll be okay. I’m right behind you.”

The boy looked up, swallowed, and managed a tiny nod. Then, he took a deep breath, and hesitantly went down the case’s ladder.

Once Credence was gone, Percival went to say what had been on the tip of his tongue all night: “Mister Scamander. I will be eternally grateful for your help, but I can take them from here. Just drop us where I can make some purchases, and you can be on your way. You don’t need…”

“You are not the only one who doesn’t trust people from a glance and a conversation, Mister Graves,” Newt interrupted him with surprising firmness.

Percival stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, before he regained his composure and admitted: “…And given recent events, I suppose that is wise.”

“Exactly.”

Percival nodded. Just like before at the station, he felt impressed. Of course _he_ knew that Credence was in safe hands by his side, but he appreciated how thorough Mister Scamander was.

“How long will it take to reach Hogwarts?” he asked.

“About three hours or so.”

“That’s long. Why not apparate somewhere closer?”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt one of you,” Newt admitted with a blush. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Hogsmade. My memory is foggy.”

“Fair enough. Want to alternate on the broom riding?”

“Thank you, but — I’m fine. I’ve got a couple doses of Vigilans potion if I get tired. You should go get some sleep with them, Mister Graves.”

There was a speck of doubt left in Graves’s suspicious mind, but at that point, he was too exhausted to protest any further. He nodded one more time, and went inside.

 

  

 

        It was around five a.m. when Credence woke up.

The first thing he noticed was that he, still, felt awful.

The second was that him, Modesty, and Mister Graves, had all slept in Newt’s bed.

 

He did not exactly remember how he had ended up tangled up in Mister Graves’s arms, except for the foggy memory of unnatural creatures sneaking up on him, and of a panicked crisis ensuing. The fact that Mister Graves had not left to find a more comfortable place after calming him down, and that he himself had managed to sleep _at all_ went to show how exhausted the both of them were.

As he looked at his sister’s messy locks of blond hair, and felt the warmth of Mister Graves’s breath raise shivers down his neck, Credence could not believe how much his life had changed in only twenty-four hours.

A day before, he had woken up in Newt’s cabin, uncertain of what exact purpose there was left in his life. Thinking that his sister hated him, and that his mentor had been a tangled web of lies. Yet now, these two people he loved and had thought lost to him forever were by his side, sleeping peacefully. It was without a doubt the best Christmas present Credence had ever had.

Still, now that he was awake, if he had no problem with sharing a bed with Modesty (as they had done countless times before), he was growing very much aware of Mister Grave’s body behind him, and the arm he had laid across his stomach. He’d found himself in… _unholy_ circumstances by only dreaming of a situation like this in the past, and there was no way he would take the risk of that happening again. Not only because it was perverse in itself, but the fact that his sister was only a few inches away from him made it abhorrently _wrong_.

He got away from the embrace and climbed out of the bed, trying to do so as delicately as he could so as not to wake up the other two. But Modesty — always the light sleeper — opened her eyes as soon as he was out.

“Where’ you goin’?” she murmured groggily.

Credence put an index against his mouth to shush her silently, then, with a wave of his other hand, gestured her to leave the bedroom with him.

 

        The two of them went to sit on a patch of grass. In the artificial horizon, a magical sun was rising slowly.

They stayed silent for a long time.

Finally, it was Credence who spoke up. “I’m sorry,” he said. Soft, but pained.

“I know,” Modesty answered simply.

“For everything. …Everyone,” her brother added. He didn’t need to, though. They rarely needed to talk to understand each other, and especially not about things like this.

Modesty was pensive for a moment, before she tentatively said: “…I asked Rook, and he said… It wasn’t you, you know. The black stuff.”

“Rook?”

The question instantly brought a bright smile to her face, in that way children can forget about pain as soon as they see joy. “Yeah! He’s a friend I made! A super nice elf! He took care of me, and knew my dad!”

 _‘Elf?’_ Credence thought. _What the hell’s that, now?_ But he had to admit it was nice to see her smile so genuinely.

“And he gave me _this_ !” she added with a grin as she took out… a _wand._

Credence’s eyes went wide with fear, the demon inside him twitching instantly. He could feel the magic oozing from the stick, and it immediately reminded him of when he had found a similar one in Modesty’s room. When Mary Lou had seen them.

“…So it _is_ real.”

“Yeah,” she admitted apologetically. “Rook gave me another to replace the one Ma’ broke.”

The sight of that wand in his sister’s hand made Credence incredibly uncomfortable, and, his eyes shut tight, he pleaded: “…Can you please put it away?”

Modesty was reluctant, but she did it anyway. “It’s not evil, you know,” she murmured. “Rook told me. Magic is just a tool, and you don’t call a tool good or evil. It’s just about what you do with it.”

Credence raised his hand to look at his fingers. As he had expected, there was a fine trail of dark smoke twirling around his fingertips from his instant of panic at the wand’s sight. When Modesty saw it, she flinched, terror written plain across her face.

“I think my tool is decisively evil,” her brother said with a bitter smile.   

Swallowing back her fear, Modesty shook her head, and went to grab his hand firmly. “But you’re not,” she stated definitively, and the smoke evaporated with her words.  

Credence was touched, but he could only let out a joyless laugh at her blind optimism. “That demon inside me has gone to great lengths to prove the contrary.”

“I don’t give a crap about that demon, or what he thinks,” Modesty scolded. “You’re _good_ , Credence. Best person I know. We’ll beat that thing together.”

He stared at her for a second, then let go of her hand, and went to ruffle her hair affectionately.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “I’m going to need your super strength to defeat it.”

“Damn right!” Modesty exclaimed, before showing her biceps with pride, and they both laughed freely.

God, he had missed her.

After that, Modesty went to rest her head against Credence’s shoulder, and they settled back in thoughtful silence. The sun was now a lighter orange.

After a while, his sister whispered: “I gotta tell you something.”

“Anything,” Credence answered immediately.  

It took some more time before she spoke again. “I don’t… miss them,” she confessed quietly.  “Ma, and Chastity. I know I should, but I don’t. Not like I missed you.”

Credence was taken aback by her admission, and unsure what to answer.

“Does that make me a bad person?” she asked anxiously. In the way she said that, it was obvious this worry had been on her mind for a long time.

Credence didn’t think he was the best to ask when it came to right and wrong, given how confused he was about it himself — if not downright amoral. Still, he believed from the bottom of his heart that his sister was, unlike him, a good person. “I don’t think so, no,” he answered.

“Do you miss them?”

“…No,” Credence admitted. “Not at all.”

Modesty seemed reassured by that. Credence found it rather worrying that _he_ was her example of morality, but he didn’t say anything. They would disagree, and he did not want to get in an argument now.

Who knew how long he had left to live.

That perspective, which had made him feel so numb only yesterday, was now once again terrifying. Even to him, it felt unfair that he be given back the people he loved the most only to lose them again in death, and hurt them in the process. But he could not ignore the ache in his skull, and all around his body, nor the shivers he was trying to repress for Modesty’s sake. His fever had gotten worse, he knew it, and even now after a few hours of sleep, he still felt as though he might collapse at any second.

He was still sick, and it was getting worse. Only now, that prospect was finally starting to concern him.

 

        Unaware of his mental torments, Modesty spoke up again: “…I don’t think they were very good people.” Then, after a pause, she added: “Especially Ma.”

“That doesn’t mean they deserved to die,” Credence chided softly.  

“No! I know!” Modesty assured quickly, then bit her lip in hesitation. “But it’s just… You were always so nice to them, Credence. Ma would slap you and beat you for any excuse, and you kept apologizing, like it was your fault. Chastity would say all that mean shit and you never said a thing, kept on carrying her stuff and helping her cook. Even when _I_ got beat, you were the one sayin’ sorry.”

Credence was not sure what she meant to say, so he simply frowned, and let her go on.

“You took it all in, never said a thing,” she continued. “And then, when the black thing exploded, it was like…  Like all that meanness they had given you over the years finally got thrown back at them.”

“It could have killed you, too,” Credence reminded her, his voice pained at the thought. “And you never did a bad thing to me.”

“It didn’t, though,” Modesty retorted, stubborn as ever. Credence knew that there was no use arguing her in these moments.  

Not comforted by her brother’s silence, she went on: “All I’m sayin’ is that… You know, that thing Ma used to say? You… reek what you saw?”

Despite the tone of the conversation, Credence had to let a quiet laugh at that. “You reap what you sow.”

“Yeah, that,” Modesty muttered, blushing. “Well maybe this demon, it’s the result of all the evil things Ma sowed in you. And then, she reaped.”

Credence could not find an answer to that.

“Maybe it’s her fault,” she murmured.   

His eyes rose to look at the false sun, ignoring the pain. “It doesn’t really matter anymore, now, does it?” he asked softly.

His sister looked at him worriedly. “I think it does.”

 

 

 

        Graves woke up to the sound of Newt’s cheerful “We’re there!”, and while he was glad they’d reached the school so soon, he couldn’t help but growl grumpily. It was way too early for his sleep-deprived brain to be awake.

He carried himself out of the case, though, and into carriages led by strange skeletal horse-like creatures. Newt was very excited when he saw them; which was weird, since he’d been a student of Hogwarts once, and surely had seen them plenty of times before. But Percival was too tired to ask for an explanation. He had the feeling it would result in a rant, and he did not have the strength to fake interest. Credence fell back asleep almost as soon as he sat down. He was shivering in spite of the warming spell Newt had placed on the carriage, and his forehead was damp with feverish sweat.

Graves had rarely felt so helpless. All he could do was hold the boy’s hand firmly, and try not to let his fears get the best of him.

“It’s a good thing it’s Christmas,” Newt murmured as he looked out the window. “Most of the kids and teachers are gone for the break, so our arrival won’t draw too much attention.”

That was a good thing indeed. Given how much noise what they now called the ‘Catastrophe’ had drawn to him and Credence already, the last thing they needed was attention. He could only imagine what would happen if the president found out Percival was now protecting the boy she had ordered executed.

Though, if it came down to that, Graves knew where his loyalty would lay. He forgave Seraphina for taking desperate measures to avoid a crisis, but she could not blame him for trying to find another way, now that he was given the chance.

“Are you sure Albus Dumbledore will be here anyway?” he asked the other wizard.

Newt showed him the letter he had received from Leta. “Yeah, he confirmed it to me. Though, I was pretty sure he’d be there even before I got this. Hogwarts is more his home than any other place.”

Graves was not sure if he found that sad, or touching. Probably a bit of both. In the wizarding world, Albus Dumbledore was a name which was starting to require no introduction. He had heard the British forces complain about his choice of a quiet life as a teacher being a waste of his talents. Had he chosen the path of an Auror, he probably would have been in the English equivalent of Percival’s position, by now.

He had not heard only praises, though. Some whispered that he had been, in his youth, a friend of Grindelwald himself. While he wasn’t sure whether the rumors were true, that mere association gave a much darker tint to how he pictured the famous wizard. He would have to be careful.

When they arrived, they were welcomed by a nurse. Percival carried Credence, and, somewhat childishly, refused the help of the magical stretcher she was offering. The nurse frowned, rolled her eyes, then after passing them through a verifying spell, hurried them inside the castle.

“Come with me — Professor Dumbledore told me to expect you.”

“Where is he?” asked Newt as he hurried to reach her side.

“He’ll meet you in the infirmary. That boy cannot stay in this state a minute longer.”

“I — I gave him infusions of dittany and shrivelfig leaves. Also some erumpent milk.”

“You did good, boy. But he’s going to need a lot more than that, at this stage.”

They entered a vast room filled with empty hospital beds, and Graves dropped Credence’s trembling body on the closest. Another nurse hurried to his side and hushed him away while him and his colleague went to work. Percival watched numbly as they recited incantations, applied ointments, and spilled strange potions down Credence’s throat.

After only a couple of minutes at most, a middle aged man with long greying auburn hair stormed into the room. If he had any doubt as to who the wizard was, Newt shouting “Professor!” at his sight silenced them.

“Hello, Newton,” Dumbledore greeted solemnly. “I would say it’s good to see you, but the circumstances are a bit too grim for such courtesies.” Then, to the female nurse, asked: “Show me.”

But before Dumbledore even touched him, Credence screamed in pain, and jet black smoke exploded and fumed around his body. The obscurus engulfed the air around his bed, and as Albus let out a powerful Patronus charm, one of the nurses pushed Percival away and ordered: “I’m going to need you to leave.”

“But —” he protested, but before he could voice the slightest objection, the nurse repeated “ _Leave_.” in a tone that left no place for protestation.

Modesty and Newt were thrown out as well, and before they knew it, the infirmary doors were shut in their face.

 

        After almost an hour of excruciating waiting, Professor Dumbledore finally went out again, and announced: “He is stable.”  

“Is he going to be okay?” Percival pressed.

The wizard took off his half-moon glasses. “To tell you the truth, I am surprised he is alive at all,” he confessed. “That boy shows a magical strength and willpower that surpasses imagination.” He sat down heavily on the bench, next to Modesty (who had fallen asleep again) and Percival. The man had the last remains of healing wounds closing on his face, and the ends of his sleeves were torn, not unlike how Percival’s clothes had been yesterday night.

“Obscurials,” Albus continued, “typically die in the event of an emotional crisis that makes their defenses vulnerable, allowing the obscurus to absorb the entirety of their life force. The intensity needed for such a crisis to be lethal depends on the age. The older the child, the stronger the obscurus, the smaller breach is required. I have read of a child dying at four after witnessing his family slaughtered by witch hunters, whereas a normal obscurial having survived to the age of eleven would be set off by the tiniest stimulus. It is obvious, however, that Credence is no _normal_ obscurial.”

So, in short: he did not know. Percival was growing more frustrated with every second.

“We have managed to stabilize him,” the professor repeated, “so for now the obscurus is under his control. I cannot say what might happen the next time he is under emotional distress, however, or even what might set him off.”

“But there has to be a way to destroy this thing!” Graves cried out.

“I could,” Albus confirmed. “It would kill him.”

This cooled down Graves’s anger instantly, and he swallowed heavily.

“Obscuri may be parasitical originally,” the man further explained, “but by the time they reach their mature stage — let alone the one Credence’s is currently at — they are much too tightly bound to the host to hope for the destruction of one without the death of the other.”

 _No way._ _Not again._

Percival buried his face in his hands, dejected. Had they really come all the way here to be told that there was nothing to be done? Dumbledore was looking at him with compassion, but that did not change how utterly useless he currently was.

“We are in uncharted territory here,” he amended in a soothing voice. “There’s no precedent in written history of a case like his. That comes with the downside of ignorance and uncertainty, but it also comes with hope.”

What Dumbledore did not realize, though, was that hope was _not_ an upside. It did not bring comfort, only a slower torture that would make the final blow all the more painful. Percival remembered, back in the dark cell, when he had been hoping someone would come to him. Had it made them come any faster? No. It had only made it more difficult to wake up each morning and see no one. Only when he had given up on all hope and come to terms with his fate, had the days become somewhat bearable.

If he was going to lose Credence no matter what, Percival would have preferred it to be in one sole, painful instant. Would he really have to watch him die, slowly but surely, unable to do a single thing to stop it? Was that what he had studied magic so long and so hard for — to be useless in the situations which mattered the most?

Albus, much more optimistic than Percival (or, perhaps, caring a lot less), turned towards Newt, and asked: “Newton, you told me the boy has never been taught magic, has he?”

The young man shook his head, while Graves raised his.

“I… I intended to make him attend Ilvermorny,” he muttered, almost as though to justify himself. “But the arrangements weren’t done when… Well, he never got the chance.”

Dumbledore nodded understandingly. “Maybe it’s time he did,” he suggested. “If he was able to control it for so long with no knowledge of magic, being trained in its arts might make that even easier to do.”

“I — I’m not sure he would want to, Professor,” Newt objected. “Any mention of magic makes him panic, I can’t imagine him being willing to _learn_ it, and even if he did, didn’t you say that emotional spikes were a no-go?”

That was true. Only yesterday night, Credence had gone under sheer panic when one of Newt’s smaller creatures had crept up his arm. It had taken long minutes to calm him down, and Percival thought they might actually have fallen asleep in the middle of that process. That had not been the case before the Catastrophe. At that time, while Credence had been scared of magic, he had also found it fascinating, and attractive. But Grindelwald and Mary Lou had transformed these mixed feelings into sheer terror. And who could blame him? In the past few weeks, what he had been shown of magic had been nothing but death.

“He cannot reject magic forever,” Albus said wisely. “It’s a part of him, either a destructive chaos, or as something he can control.”

“But — ” Newt began, but his objection was interrupted by Percival.

“I’ll speak to him.”

He got up from the bench, staring at the yellowing stone of the wall. “Before Grindelwald took my place,” he further explained, "I witnessed Credence’s views on magic evolve greatly. To the point that he actually wanted me to teach him.”

“I doubt that’s what he wants now,” Newt protested softly.

“I know,” Percival answered. “I’ll be patient.” Then, after a thoughtful pause, added grimly: “Let’s hope I’ll have the time to be.”

Dumbledore seemed pleased by his decision. “This school is not as flexible as Ilvermorny when it comes to the ages of students,” he admitted, “so I cannot let him attend lessons. He would stand out, and the entire castle would know of his presence by nightfall. Which would be… unwise. But I have spoken to the headmaster. You are welcome to stay here, and use our resources to teach him, provided you remain discrete. I myself would be happy to help in my own areas of expertise.”

The offer surprised Graves. Why would Albus Dumbledore — and Armando Dippet, with that — show such hospitality towards a couple of expatriates they had just met? He had not planned to stay in England any longer than he needed to (being in an unfamiliar country was playing too much to his disadvantage for his liking), but… this castle _was_ said to be one of the safest places on earth. If Grindelwald’s men tried to reach them here, they would most certainly fail.

“Newton, you look exhausted,” commented Albus kindly. “Why don’t you get some sleep on one of the beds in the infirmary? And take that little one with you, will you,” he said, gesturing at Modesty with fondness. “I’ll have one of the nurses show you your apartments once they’re ready.”

“Uh — I…” hesitated Newt. He clearly sensed, like Graves did, that this was not just some paternal concern for a former student, but much more an invitation to leave them alone. Not a very subtle one, with that. However, Newton seemed to find it reasonable, and nodded: “I will. Thank you, professor.”  After that, he took Modesty’s sleeping frame in his arms, and brought her inside the infirmary with him.

 

        Once the door was shut behind them, Albus’s features turned more serious and professional. “So Grindelwald is behind this mess?” he asked, and it seemed to Graves that he was doing his best to keep his voice even.

“He is still held in New York at the moment,” he answered. “Although — no offense to Mister Scamander, to whom we owe his capture — I’m afraid his arrest was a bit too easy to be genuine.”

Dumbledore nodded absently. “Newton is aware of this, too,” he confirmed, and Percival supposed the younger man must have expressed these worries in his letter. “He is a good wizard, and resourceful like no one, but Gellert’s magical powers are far beyond his… Far beyond mine, in fact.”

“I know. I experienced them first hand,” Percival answered bitterly. He was considered to be one of the most powerful wizards in America when it came to Defense Against The Dark Arts, yet his fight against Grindelwald had been greatly unbalanced. His powers paled in comparison with what the criminal was capable of. “…He probably has a plan to escape.”

“That is most likely,” Dumbledore agreed.  

“Do you think Credence may play a part in it?” Percival asked, and, confirming what he’d suspected, the wizard answered: “I think it is a possibility.”

“Which is why you want him in Hogwarts.”

“Both to keep them out, and to keep him in, yes.”

Percival felt as though that should have made him angry, but… Had he been in Albus’s position, that is exactly what he would have done. So, instead, he simply said: “I understand.”

He was about to go check on Credence, but before his hand touched the handle, Graves turned back to face the professor. “…Is it true that you knew him?” he asked.

“Who?” Dumbledore answered, but even to Percival’s ear the question sounded hollow.

“Gellert Grindelwald.”

After a pause, the wizard conceded, his voice low and veiled with a thin but vivid grief: “I did know him once, yes.”

“You were close,” Percival said. Not bothering to phrase it as a question. It was evident.  

“I thought we were,” Albus answered with a cryptic smile. “But I was wrong. No one is close to Grindelwald. Apart from his ego, perhaps. That, he keeps close to his heart.”

 _Yeah,_ Graves thought with a frown. He could believe that. There was something else he wanted to ask the professor, but he wasn’t sure how to phrase it — or, in fact, if it was a good idea to phrase it at all. But when he looked up to meet Albus’s stare, he found there something which gave him the confidence he sought. So he took a deep breath, and asked, quietly: “How did you get him out of your head?”

 

A very sad smile dawned on Albus’s lips. “Oh, Mister Graves,” he murmured. “I am quite possibly the worst person who could give you advice on the matter.”

Which was but another way of saying: _‘I didn’t’_.

 

 

 

        When Credence awoke, this time, he was alone in his bed, and a large clock on the wall indicated it was past noon.

He felt considerably better. He could still feel the darkness twitch inside him as it took in the magic which vibrated from every fiber of this place (much, much worse than inside Newt’s case) but it wasn’t as daunting as he had felt when he’d arrived, semi-conscious; and the fever was gone.

Modesty was sleeping in the bed to his left, and Newt was on the next. They looked peaceful and comfortable, and Credence hoped they caught up on all the missing hours of sleep they had accumulated for his sake.

To his right, on a chair close to his bed, sat Mister Graves.

Seeing him here, so close, and knowing both who he was and who he hadn’t been, was an unsettling combination of strange and natural. He supposed that was what it felt like to come home after being abroad for years, or waking up from too long a dream. Mister Graves looked exhausted, deep shadows circling his brown eyes, but he was not sleeping. Instead, he read a thick, ancient looking book.

Credence rolled his body over to face him, and the sound of ruffling sheets had Percival’s eyes up immediately. His focused expression became a warm smile, though Credence could sense a poignant sadness in it, too.

“Hey,” the boy murmured sleepily.  

“Hey, you,” the other answered softly. He closed his book to bring his chair closer, and caressed Credence’s cheek, who instinctively leaned into the contact. Mister Graves’s hands always felt so warm.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he confessed with a shy smile.

“Me too,” the older man answered, sounding sincere.

Credence couldn’t help but think how incredible it was, that he was by his side — more so, _happy_ to be here — after all the man had gone through because of him. His eyes looked down, and he tried to apologize: “I’m sorry, for…”

But the words were stuck in his throat. Where to even begin? There were so many things to be sorry about. From having been in his life in the first place, to the thousands of terrible consequences it had brought upon him.

But Mister Graves cut him short before he had a chance to go on. “Don’t be,” he ordered. As always, he sounded so calm. So confident.  But surely, Credence couldn’t leave it at that, could he?

“I read that…” he started, hesitant. “Grindelwald, he kept you, he…”

“That doesn’t matter.”  

Credence always tended to believe Mister Graves (which had been one of the the reasons why he’d been fooled by Grindelwald so thoroughly), but this left him unconvinced. How could it not matter? No one would find being imprisoned for two months trivial, and he knew _this_ Mister Graves well. He could tell that he was in pain a lot more than he showed.

Sensing his doubts, Percival sighed, and explained: “I’m an auror, Credence. A soldier whose purpose it is to fight against dark wizards like Grindelwald. I’ve fought in wars. This wasn’t my first sequestration — not even the first time I was tortured. This is my _job_ , and all that shit is the price I need to pay when I’m not strong enough to uphold my vows.”

He acted tough, and while Credence knew that a large part of this was true, he could see beyond the mask of sturdiness a little better now. He did not say anything, though. Mister Graves needed to believe that what had happened with Grindelwald had not been traumatizing — just a part of the job — and if it would help him feel better, Credence was ready to believe that, too.

“But when I thought you were dead, that…” Mister Graves continued, but his voice broke at that, and Credence saw in his eyes a vulnerability he did not remember ever sensing before. For once, he felt like his and Percival’s feelings were in perfect correspondence, because the kind of pain that leaves you unable to speak was exactly what he had felt when he’d thought he’d lost him, too.

He soon chased it, though, and instead regained his iron confidence. “You’re alive,” he affirmed. “That’s all I care about.”  

Credence felt mixed emotions coiling in him, and as his lips let forth a tender smile, he felt his eyes begin to water. “I missed you,” he whispered, and at that, Percival went to sit on the bed so he could draw him in a tight hug. That, too, Credence had missed — the kind of genuine human warmth he’d only ever felt in the arms of the real Mister Graves.  

“I won’t leave you again,” the man promised, and that was all Credence wanted to hear, even if he wasn’t sure he really believed it.  

“Please,” he begged, and nuzzled his nose in the curve of his neck.

 

He felt the pressing of a small object, and when he opened an eye to look, Credence saw, pinned to the inside of his coat, the small camellia brooch he had once gotten for Mister Graves’s birthday. Delicately, he let his fingers trace the silver petals.

“You still have it it,” he remarked, smiling.

“Of course,” Percival assured. “It’s my lucky charm.”

That, however, made Credence’s regrets resurface. “Didn’t do its job very well these past couple of months though, did it,” he muttered with a hint of bitterness.

“Actually, I think it’s been pretty efficient,” he countered. “I didn’t have it on me when Grindelwald caught me. Or when I thought you’d died. But I did when Modesty knocked on my door.”

Credence rose up, so that his eyes could meet the other man’s. There was a warmth in them, which gave comfort, confidence — and something else altogether. “And when you found me,” he murmured, the hint of a question in his tone.

“And when I found you,” Percival confirmed.

Still tightly intertwined in his embrace, Credence felt lightheaded by how _close_ they were. His eyes had trouble staying away from Mister Graves’s lips, and he felt his own skin heating up with a different kind of fever. He thought back to when he had bought that brooch. He’d told Mister Graves it only meant ‘Good Luck’ and ‘Admiration’. And while that was true, he had omitted to say that the camellia could have other meanings, depending on the colour of the petals. White, for adoration. Red, for desire. And, somewhere in between, a pale pink — _longing_ , for someone he both adored and desired, but who would always remain a little out of reach.

He knew that, but it was easy to believe in the impossible, when they were so _close_ . Easy to believe that the final inch between them could be breached, if only he moved just a little closer. That he was _allowed_ to move a little closer, that it wasn’t so evil, so unnatural — not when it looked like it would feel so good.

“Mister Graves, I…” Credence started softly.

He was not able to finish that sentence, though, because a plaintive voice suddenly resonated in the infirmary: “Guyyys, I’m _SO_ hungry!”

They abruptly got away from one another, in a clumsy and desperate attempt to salvage appearances. Percival rose to his feet and pretended to be very interested with the texture of the wall, while the redness of Credence’s cheeks was only matched by that of Newt’s, who also happened to be awake, and was pointedly avoiding their eyes.

“Haha, haha — great idea, Modesty!” he said, more awkward than Credence had ever heard him be; _which was saying something_. “It’s half past twelve already, I—I’m sure the Great Hall has food served!”

“Cool, let’s go!” chirped Modesty, looking very pleased with the bashful chaos she was causing.  “Are you okay with walking, Credence? Or do you need to be carried again?”

“ _You carried me_?” her brother repeated, trying to compute how something that small could have supported his weight.

“Say what? ‘fcourse not,” Modesty retorted, wrinkling her nose. “ _He_ did,” she corrected, pointing to Percival who was still positively fascinated with the wall. “Like you were a damn princess and all, too. You’d think with all his fancy magic he could have made you float or something, but nooo, he had to show off his _muscles_. Even after they’d brought the magic carrier thing.” She rolled her eyes, then elbowed at Newt, as though only he could understand the ridiculousness of it all. “Grownups, amirite.”

“How about you stop talking this second?” Percival warned, trying to sound threatening, but the blush that was now creeping on his cheeks as well failed to make it very convincing.

“How about you get your butt up so we can _eat_ , you know, that bodily function you’re supposed to have three times a day?” Modesty retorted instead, not missing a beat.

Credence couldn’t help but laugh at her shameless insolence — soon joined by Newt, and even Percival’s frown turned into a benevolent smile. He hadn’t seen his sister acting that way in a long time — and when she had, it had always been in private. For Ma to hear these kind of rebellious quips had been out of the question.

But these days were over. Now, Modesty was allowed to be like this whenever she liked.

And, despite it all, this knowledge made Credence incredibly happy.

 

 

 

        Food was indeed served in the dining hall. Everything about Hogwarts made Newt feel nostalgic, but the great hall was definitely one which made him reminisce the most. It was so easy to picture him and Leta, only twelve or so, stuffing food from the banquet in their robes to later feed the bowtruckles who lived close to the Herbology greenhouse, or planning elaborate pranks on Theseus, or getting provisions for their nightly exploration of the forbidden forest in hopes of seeing a unicorn.

Back in school, Leta had been more than Newt’s best friend: she had been his _only_ friend. People had often teased him that he was ‘obviously in love’ with her, back then, though if truth be told, Newt had never really felt these kinds of feelings towards anyone, nor did he have a particular interest in them. Friendship, though, was something he deeply cared about, and his and Leta’s had been perfect; at first.

Things had never been the same after his expulsion.

It had been strange, to say the least, to see her again after all this time, and he wondered dimly why Dumbledore would think it a good idea to send her — before realizing that the professor, of course, probably knew nothing of their later disagreements, and only of the symbiotic pair they had made back then.

Newt was relieved that, in spite of the dubious beliefs she had once held, Leta had not chosen to support the Greater Good. That relief, however, didn’t take from how thankful he was that their conversation had been cut short. Leta knew him in deeper ways than most people did, but she was scarcely kind in her use of that knowledge.

She’d hurt him a lot.

 

        After lunch, they were shown their apartments; four guest bedrooms, not far from those the teachers slept in. It felt incredibly bizarre to sleep in a Hogwarts bed that did not have the Hufflepuff colors. To feel a bit better, Newt hung his scarf alongside the headboard, then smiled to himself, pleased with the result.

He then went inside his case, and spent all the afternoon taking care of his vast family of magical creatures. It was a routine he felt comfortable in, and after the many strange events that had been accumulating since he’d chosen to visit New York — Newt could use a bit of comforting routine.

He had been busy at work for about five or six hours, when a small voice asked behind him: “Watchu doin’?”

Newt yelped, and the high pitched sound coupled with his little jump made Modesty laugh, before she made amends: “Sorry, your case was open, so….”

“It’s alright,” Newt assured once he was over his initial surprise. “Weren’t you sleeping?”

She shrugged. “Meh. I’ve slept enough. What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the mooncalves he had been in the process of cleaning.

If there was one thing which made Newt cheerful, it was to be asked about his babies. He explained in length what kind of creature mooncalves were, their living habits, how to take care of them, all with loads of fun facts, and to his surprise, Modesty was actually listening avidly, asking more questions herself. Afterwards, Newt introduced her to the rest of the family, only too glad to have found another person interested in his ramblings (even if it did make him miss Jacob all the more).

Before they knew it, they had spent the whole evening petting and talking about magical creatures, and the hour was starting to get late. They sat down on the stairs towards his bedroom for a little while, and though Newt knew he ought to send the girl off to bed, he still had a question which needed an answer; and somehow, he didn’t think he would get it from Mister Graves. “Modesty… How did you two find Credence and I?” he asked.

“Well, Mister British,” Modesty began, crossing her arms importantly. “That’s a really weird, yet awesome story, if you must know.”

“Call me Newt,” the wizard suggested with a smile.

“Sure, Noot,” she agreed, and he did not have the heart to correct her. “So. I had a vision. That’s not all that weird yet, because I’m used to having visions about Credence whenever he needs me. I’m not sure why, it’s just a thing that happens. When he’s in pain and I’m not there — bam. I get a vision of where he is. Pretty crazy. But here’s where it gets _crispy_. This time, I had a vision so precise I could draw a whole MAP of SCOTTLAND.”

Newt’s eyes widened. Of all the things he had expected to hear, that certainly was _not_ one of them. He was suddenly wondering if asking a ten-year-old had really been a good call.

“I swear,” the girl assured, “Scout’s honor.”

“Oh, well then,” answered Newt, pretending to wipe his forehead in overacted relief. “I would never dare to question a scout’s honor!”

“I don’t actually know what that means, by the way,” Modesty thought useful to clarify. “I just heard a guy say it and thought it sounded cool. Anyway. I had the vision, and I told Rook about it. He said,” and at that point, she began to imitate the voice of an elderly man. “ _‘Oôôh, Lady Maude, this is of the utmost importance, truly, truly…. Your foster brother will neeeed your heeelp”._ And that’s when we decided to go see Mister Grumpy Eyebrows. At first he was, _obviously_ , grumpy, but then got pretty damn impressed by my drawing skills — I’m an artist, if you must know, and hell of a good one if I say so myself — so he agreed to take me there. I don’t know how we managed to have such a perfect timing, we’d totally expected to wait in the station for aaaages, but we arrived exactly when things were turning sour on your side.” Then, when she was done with her fast-paced monologue, she punctuated it with a: “Crazy, uh?”

“That is pretty crazy, indeed,” Newt easily admitted.  

“Right? Whoever gives me these visions must be damn good at arithmetic.”

Newt laughed. That girl truly had a unique way of looking at things. “You think _someone_ sends them to you?”

“I used to think it was God, but now, I’m not so sure. Everyone always said that Ma was such a godly woman. So either they’ve all got it really wrong, or it’s someone else who’s watching over me and Credence.”

“These things are pretty complicated,” Newt said, perhaps to reassure her somewhat. “But if there’s anything I’ve learnt from religion, it’s that you can make God anything you need them to be.”

“You don’t sound like you were very good at Sunday School, Noot,” Modesty remarked.  At that, Newt broke in open laughter. She had hit the bullseye on that one.

“No, I wasn’t,” he admitted once he was done laughing. “Really wasn’t. But I’m happy, and I have friends, so does it really matter?”

Even to Modesty’s rebellious mind, that concept seemed shocking. “You’re not afraid of going to hell?” she asked, incredulous.

“That’s not really something I’ll have much control over,” Newt explained. “I’m doing my best being a good person, and we’ll see what happens at the end of it all.”

There was a silence. Then, Modesty confessed: “I like that.”

She got up, and stared at Newt for a little longer, before she asked: “Who do you need God to be, Noot?”

He’d spent a long time thinking about these questions, but Newt had to take a moment to find a way to phrase it in a way that a ten-year old would understand. “Probably… An artist?” he suggested. “Who made so many beings, all beautiful in their own unique way.” He got up as well, gestured towards the mooncalf between them, and all the other creatures and plants around. Then, he turned back towards Modesty, and asked in turn: “Who do _you_ need God to be, Modesty?”

She was silent for a long time, while she caressed the mooncalf pensively. Then, her eyes rose to Newt, and she said: “A mom, I think.”

And, looking towards the horizon, she repeated softly: “I’d really like a mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modesty totally waited for ten minutes before she found the most perfect moment to interrupt them, by the way. (Why do you think she’s my fav?)
> 
> On a more serious notes, thanks to you all for the kudos and comments. These chapters take some time to get out, but I hope they’re long enough to make up for it.  
> A headcanon for your consideration: Newt is an ace, greyromantic cutie who is too busy taking care of his family of creatures and generally being a blessing to this world to care about romance.  
> Also, it’s only chapter three, and I have already completely given up on making the characters’ way of speaking era-appropriate.  
> Oops. 
> 
> Next on: the spicyness begins


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival is a smooth talker, and an even smoother teacher. Credence turns out to be quite the model student.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my great beta reader, xJuniperx ♡

### CHAPTER FOUR — Redemption

   

 

_A droplet fell._

Percival’s lids opened with difficulty. His thoughts were murky and slow, submerged in the hazy grogginess of early mornings after short nights.

Up until his eyes focused on the ceiling.

The dreadfully familiar sight shot a sharp bolt of alert through his body — and suddenly, he was very much awake.

Though the room was draped in obscurity, Graves knew _exactly_ where he was. He knew this ceiling. He knew the moldy smell which thickened the air, the sporadic dribble of water from a broken tap, the sad, rusty excuse of a bed which irritated his skin. And the darkness, barely fathomable even after months of adjusting his pupils.  

He was back in Grindelwald’s cell.

_…Or had he ever even left?_

He was trying so hard to be rational, but should any intelligible thought try to cross his brain, it was answered by a tenfold rush of panic. He could feel the humid air suffocating his lungs, until they were filled by nothing but the dreadful horror of realization. His heart must have been beating furiously, but even in the mortifying tranquility, Percival could not hear it.

_Another drop._

Suddenly, a new sound went to join the drips that filled the gaping silence. A laughter. First low, somber, almost quiet in its frigidity. But gradually, it expanded, becoming louder, piercing, downright hysterical. Graves had never heard this laugh, yet he knew exactly who it belonged to.

_Who else?_

Behind the bars of the cell stood Gellert Grindelwald. He was wearing a heavy black cape, torn and disheveled with blood stains. Graves could barely see his face, as the shadows of his hood let only the chilling rictus of his smile appear. He painted a grotesque picture, enhanced by… birds? For some reason, the man seemed to have two ravens on each of his shoulders — their black feathers barely visible in the obscurity — and the corpse of a third one lay still in the palm of his hands. Its wings and face seemed… burnt.

_Drop. Drop. Drop._

Percival sat up, in a desperate attempt to get as far as possible from the man, and the movement was what finally made Grindelwald stop laughing. Still, his distorted smile did not leave his lips as he whispered: “You… are an _insult_ to the name of wizard.” It was a delirious voice, quivering and shrill, coming from a throat made of ice, and razors for lips.

The metaphor became agonizingly literal, when the voice next shouted: _‘CRUCIO!’_

Blinded by the excruciating pain, Percival barely noticed how the drops of water kept on falling, falling, falling, until what came from the ceiling was not the small mercy of a broken tap, but an icy rain, a storm, a hurricane, taking the cell, the rust, Grindelwald and Graves in its unforgiving wake.

        The universe shifted, and when his eyes opened again, Percival was in a field of white flowers.

Snowdrops.

Not far from him, in the exact middle of the field, lay Credence. He was beautiful, and sad. He always was. His fingers were intertwined with a ribbon of red silk, and drops of tears were pearling through his eyelashes. A red camellia was tangled in his hair.

A woman stood in front of him. She had wide hips, long, silky black hair, and a warm smile. A strong smile. Her dress was floating in a wind, transparent fabrics drifting together with a sort of ethereal grace not even ghosts could muster.

Graves had never met her. But he knew her.

She held a hand towards Credence, and helped him get back up. There, she drew him to her, or Credence drew her to him — and they held each other. Hugging tight. Not letting go.

The woman’s gaze turned to Percival. She stared at him with her large, dark, almond-shaped eyes, then, silently, brought a finger to her mouth, and murmured: “ _Shh_.”

At that, it was as though the universe shifted again, and for a second Graves was amidst a snow storm, then — back in his cell, then — home — Mary Lou’s church — in…

 

        Percival woke up.

He was shaking feverishly, and his clothes stuck to his skin, damped in cold sweat.

By no means was this the first nightmare he’d had since being found by Seraphina — and it most likely would not be the last, for he was scarcely able to get a night’s sleep that did not end in nocturnal terrors anymore. He’d had a couple of them in the past three nights they had spent in Hogwarts, too.

But this one had been different. Drastically so.

For one, his usual nightmares were memories. He relived the day Grindelwald had captured him, the times of total isolation and starvation in the cell, the moment he had believed Credence was dead. Some of his older demons had resurfaced as well — the faces of friends he had lost in the war, or in the line of duty. But what he had seen just now had never happened to him. Grindelwald _had_ tortured him, but he’d done it in ways much more insidious than the Cruciatus curse: through cruel whispers and prolonged solitude. It might have been a symbol, but it had not felt like one. It had felt _real_.

And why had Credence been there? Who had been this woman? Percival was almost sure he knew her, somehow, though he could not remember ever meeting someone like that. Her strangely familiar visage was imprinted in his mind’s eye — in fact, he could see her so perfectly clearly that had he been an artist, he could have painted her portrait from memory alone…

Percival sat up. Suddenly, he recalled what Modesty had told him, upon their first meeting.

 _“Not a dream! A vision!_ _Like the one I had when I first met Credence, and whenever Ma' beat him too hard and he needed band aid!”_

And then, Modesty had drawn a map of Edinburgh. From memory.

Could this be it? Was he having a vision of the same kind? He had assumed that Modesty possessed some hidden power, but… could it be that Credence had been the trigger all along?

As he tried to wrap his head around it, he had to admit it _was_ more plausible. What were the odds of two miraculously spectacular children — one predicting the future with exactitude, the other surviving what no child in history had ever managed to — being adopted by the same woman? On the other hand, if Credence was the source of the vision… Well, that reduced the number of inexplicable mysteries down to one.

So then… Had this been the _future_? Was he going to be imprisoned again? The thought made his heart race with dread, but he tried to calm himself down. He had to be rational. The cell he had been imprisoned in, along with the entire basement of Grindelwald’s hiding place, was currently filled with investigating aurors desperate for clues which would help to convict the wizard and his minions. It would be in that state for another month or two, and once this was done, the dungeon would be destroyed.  

There was no way he’d ever go back in there. So why?

Had it been a meddle of memories and premonition? Could it be a symbol, supposed to warn him about something — much like the view of Edinburgh from the sky had allowed Modesty to pinpoint the city, though she herself had not seen it from Newt’s broom? If it _was_ a message, it was cryptic at best. And what did the three ravens mean? Were they an omen? Animagi? Graves almost wished he had taken Divination lessons at school. He may have found it stupid back then, but it would have proven pretty damn useful right now.

Most of all, what troubled him was the woman. She had silently asked him to stay quiet, and despite the warmth, there had been a strange… morbidity, in how she had embraced Credence. Most importantly, Graves was sure he _knew_ her.

He went to get his pocket watch. It was still set in New York’s time zone — a little bit past eleven pm. It should have spoken volumes about how far too early it was for anyone in Great Britain to be awake, but Percival was pleased. He needed to have this woman sketched so he could pinpoint her name, and while he was wretchedly poor at drawing, he knew a facial composite artist who excelled at his job, and had proven in the past to be ready to do it beyond regular work hours for an extra piece of silver.

Silently, Percival got dressed, and walked outside. It took a while to reach the gates, then an even longer time to leave the grounds so he could apparate, but fortunately, no one gave him any trouble. It was only three days after Christmas, so the castle was rather empty — and among those that were here, even fewer were awake at this hour. Once he reached the end of the protective spell zone, Graves disapparated, and ended up back in the familiarity of New York City.

Frederick was surprised to see him there, having probably heard of his vacation, but not exactly shocked, either. Graves had the reputation of being a chronic workaholic (which was not really ill-founded), so _of course_ he was still working, even on a break. He seemed curious about the details, but knew better than to ask. They got to work immediately, and thanks to Percival’s very precise description, and Frederick’s talent, the sketch (done in the traditional Non-Maj manner, to save some time) was finished in less than an hour.

Graves held the paper in his hand. There was no doubt about it now. Hard as it was to believe, Percival knew _exactly_ who this woman was.

He had never met her in the flesh. And in fact, never would.

But he knew.

 

  

 

        To say that Credence felt confused would have been the understatement of the year.

Growing up, he had been taught to divide the concepts of life in binary, clear-cut opposites; Right and Wrong, Purity and Sin, Salvation and Damnation. Based on these criteria, he had elaborated a set of guiding principles, which all resolved around a main objective: resisting the temptation of earthly sins. He had learnt early that the path to hell was by far the sweetest road, and thus it mostly revolved around resisting the calling of temporary pleasures, in the hopes of one day reaching eternal bliss.

Somehow, though, this task was a lot harder for him than for your regular Christian. It wasn’t very fair that people like Ma’ or Chastity never seemed to struggle with those temptations. They hated magic with all their being, hated vulgarity and depravity — thus fighting it and staying away from it was instinctive for them, and very rewarding. For Credence, these were the only things that made him feel any joy at all. He found no comfort inside a church, while this… place, this castle which reeked of magic, made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt before. It was unfair. But that was the prize of being born from an _‘unnatural woman'_ , he supposed.  

“And that’s why you’re here…” he murmured, looking at his hand. There was no smoke intertwining his fingers, nor had there been any in the past few days, but Credence knew the demon was still there. He could feel it — and he knew he was only one heartbreak away from becoming its instrument once again. Rather; its weapon. Though it was hard to tell which, of Credence or this demon, was the weapon of the other.

Either way, the result was death.

Once again, his thoughts drifted to Mary Lou. When she’d been alive, staying away from evil had been… well, if not easy, at least easier. Should Credence be tempted to commit a sin, the thought of being punished by Mary Lou afterwards was usually enough to resist the temptation — though it had proven rather ineffective whenever Mr. Graves was concerned. Still, at least, the punishment was there to remind him of the wrongs he had indulged in, and he often went to sleep in weeping apologies.

But now… Mary Lou was dead. More accurately — Credence had _killed_ her. A capital sin. He knew he should have felt a lot guiltier than he did. All the pain she had put him through had been to save his soul, and she had died trying. But he could not help it. He did not miss her in the least. Worse — while he deeply regretted committing a murder, he did not regret that he had killed _her._ Even the death of the politician — a complete stranger who had insulted him and his family — made him feel worse than her death. There was a voice in his head which tried to sway his emotions, that kept on repeating like a mantra that he was a horrible person for not missing a woman who had given everything for him, even her life, but the voice grew weaker every day.

In the end, the core of the issue was probably love. Try as he might, Credence could not love Mary Lou. Whenever he searched for the warm feelings he felt for Modesty, (and even Chastity, at times), he was reminded of the burning of leather on his wrist. On his back. On his thighs. The marks were gone, now, but he remembered the pain with an exactitude that made him wince. He remembered as well the insults she had thrown at him, and everyone he’d ever cared for. This pain made it impossible for any love, any warmth, any attachment to settle in his heart.

The tragic part was that, paradoxically, Credence hated himself for not loving her. The abuse Mary Lou had subjected him to had been insidious, and had grown like an autoimmune disease: leading him to despise the normal emotions of pain and anger he felt, while making him believe that the only thing his tormenter deserved was love and respect. She had, over the years, brainwashed him into a self-loathing so intricate that his intellect and sense of morality had turned against his own emotions.

But Mary Loy _was_ dead, and her influence would eventually die with her. It would be a slow process, as wounds of this depth inflicted so early heal with difficulty, but some day, even the scars she had left behind would be all but a distant memory.

For now, however, Credence remained confused.

Adrift between what he had been taught, and what his heart earnestly felt. Her prejudices were securely rooted in his mind, but in parallel, it was getting harder each day to see why a woman who brought nothing but pain in her wake should be deemed a better person than, say, Modesty, whose innocent insolence brought smiles and laughter to those who listened to her. It was also difficult to understand how people like Mr. Graves, Mr. Newt, Mr. Dumbledore, or any of the children he had passed by in the corridors of the castle — could be _evil_ simply because they had been born in a different world, with different practices. More and more, Credence was beginning to judge people with a new eye; or rather, to judge them less. He found that tolerance and empathy came easier to him than the puritan righteousness Mary Lou had tried to teach him.

 

        As he brooded under the warm blanket of his bed, deep in thoughts, he did not hear the knock on the door, and jumped when it suddenly opened, his heart skipping a beat. When he saw Mr. Graves enter the room, however, an inexplicable relief washed over him.

“Good morning,” Percival greeted. It was only seven am, yet he was already fully dressed, his elegant coat draping him smoothly. His hair was slightly tousled, and there were dark circles under his eyes, which indicated that he had probably not slept much, if at all.                                                                        

“Good morning, Mr. Graves,” Credence answered sweetly. He wasn’t sure what had earned him this early morning visit, but he certainly was not complaining.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a seat besides Credence on the bed.

 _Lost_.

“Better,” he lied.  

Percival was not fooled — which said as much about his observation skills, as it did about Credence’s inability to lie convincingly.  

“I know being here must be difficult for you,” the man sighed, his brow furrowing in a slight frown.  

In truth, it was how _easy_ it was to be here that worried Credence the most. But he said nothing, and Graves took his silence as a cue to continue.

“I didn’t want you to be forced into my world like that,” he admitted. “I’m aware of the things Mary Lou planted in your head, even if you don’t say them in front of me. Back in New York, I was trying to introduce you to the idea of magic, one step at a time, but… we don’t have the luxury of _time_ anymore.”

The last bit was said in a grim tone which surprised Credence somewhat. In the past three days, Mr. Graves had seemed rather… carefree, and optimistic. There was always this shadow of worry in the depth of his eyes, but this was the first time he acknowledged it so openly. It was a bittersweet sensation — sweet to feel like Mr. Graves finally saw him fit to discuss his worries with, but bitter that he was worried at all, and, most likely, because of him.

He was thoughtful for a beat, then asked, somehow managing to keep his voice steady: “Is it because I’m… going to die?”

Mr. Graves flinched at that, as though someone had slapped him. He looked hurt, as well, and Credence felt guilty for asking. “Not any time soon. No. I won’t let that happen,” he promised, his voice deep, and unwavering. He could feel both his unrelenting strength—that of a man who would never let go, never surrender — and his vulnerability, for caring so much about a life so fragile. His eyes showed both the tenacity of iron, and the soft light of affection. To see such a man care about him in that way made Credence feel light-headed, and, when Graves got closer to him on the bed, that feeling was joined by a flutter of butterflies in his stomach.

“But I won’t lie to you either,” Percival continued, looking away. “It’s going to be hard. You’ll have to be strong.” He sighed. Then, his eyes went back to meet Credence’s, and he asked in a softer voice: “Did Mr. Scamander explain the black smoke to you?”

His demon. That was what he called it, but he remembered the term Mr. Newt had used. “An obscurus, right?”

Graves shot him a proud smile, and Credence was glad to have memorized it. “Right,” he confirmed. “Do you know where it comes from?”

“Uh… from my magic?” he croaked. That was also something Mr. Newt had explained, but he tried to think of it as little as possible. Just to think of the demon made him feel anxious, but to wonder where it came from, why it had chosen him…

“No, Credence,” Percival said with a shake of his head — and how was it that even his name sounded so beautiful in his voice? “Your magic is just the same as mine, as Modesty’s, as Newton’s. The difference is the mistreatment Ms. Barebone subjected you to, which led you to fear it, and vilify it.” Then, after a pensive silence, he added darkly: “And… I suppose Grindelwald had a lot to do with it as well.”

That was another thing Credence was trying to forget. He wasn’t very successful, so far.

“He was awful,” he murmured.

Graves nodded, and Credence could see the guilt flashing through his eyes. A silence settled between them, which might have sounded awkward, had they not been so close to each other (the proximity was _very_ distracting). Percival was the one who broke it, when he gulped, and finally managed to ask: “What did he do to you?”

The question surprised Credence. “I’d… do you really want to know?”

“Probably not,” he admitted, “but… imagining is worse.”

Since their reunion, they had barely talked about what Grindelwald had _done to him._ He suspected it was largely because Percival felt terrible about the crimes the wizard had committed in his name, but Credence had also avoided the topic, despite how often it was on his mind. To reconcile the true Graves and the fake Graves was taking more effort than he would have thought — and he often had to remind himself that he did not share those two months of memories with the man in front of him; even the good ones. He was especially afraid, should he talk about it, to misname Grindelwald for Graves, or to imply in any way that he was still confused between the two. He knew it would have hurt Percival greatly, and that was the last thing he wanted, by far.

If he wanted to know, though, Credence would indulge him — and be extremely careful to use ‘ _him’_ , instead of ‘ _you’_.  “He came to the church, one day. I hadn’t seen you in weeks. I could tell there was something off but I… I wasn’t sure what it meant.”

“His ‘ _aura’_ , right?” asked Percival, probably remembering what he had said on Christmas night.

Credence nodded. “Yours is a lot warmer,” he affirmed, which made Graves smile in that soft way he loved. “I thought maybe you’d had a bad day, or been involved in some strange magic business... anyway. Right away he — started talking about a vision he’d had.”

Surprisingly, this seemed to take Percival completely aback. “A _vision_?” he asked, his eyes wide as though this was somehow a revelation of great importance.

“Em… yes,” Credence confirmed awkwardly, not understanding what made it a big deal — but Graves did not see it fit to elaborate, so he went on. “At first he only told me there was a child with magical powers amongst Mary Lou’s students. Later, he mentioned that I was involved in it — that I was the one who earned the child’s trust. But really, I think he just saw me alongside the obscurus, and made the wrong conclusions.”

Percival nodded, looking deeply thoughtful, and Credence cocked his head. He wished he could have known what was making him so pensive.

“He was so… obsessed,” he continued. The tale was going to be harder to tell from here. He forced himself to go on, but his voice grew strained. “It became scarier and more intense each time. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I was looking for, but he urged me every time. Most days he’d try to be sweet, he’d heal me or hug me,” and this element made Graves’s eyes darken with a deep possessiveness that made Credence blush. “B-but we never talked about anything but the child I needed to find. And by the end he — he yelled, p-punched me, and —”

Sensing he could not continue, Percival took him in his arms, and held him tight. Safe. Sound. Warm. And perhaps it was naïve, but Credence felt that, so long as he stayed in the strong embrace of his arms, no dark wizards would be able to hurt either of them. Not ever again. “I’m really glad you’re back,” he whispered, nuzzling his nose in the curve of his neck.  

“So am I,” Graves answered, a quiet ardor in his tone. Then, he took a breath, perhaps to think about how to phrase what would come next, and retreated from the hug a little bit, only to cup Credence’s head in his hands. The boy closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, almost instinctively. Then, in a voice low enough not to break the intimate sanctuary of their intertwined bodies, Graves spoke again: “Grindelwald… is an _evil_ wizard, Credence. What he does, we call dark magic. It is devious, vehement, and that you find it wrong is proof of your own morality. But it’s _important_ to realize that not all magic is like that. On the contrary, really. Most magic is used to help people, heal them, protect them from evil — making sure that they lead better and longer lives.”

There were many parts of these words that Credence struggled to wrap his head around (such that a murderer like him could have such a thing as a _morality_ ) but what confused him the most was; _‘If all magic is not evil, why did God forbid it?’_

“Which is why,” Percival continued carefully, “to protect yourself from what Mary Lou and Grindelwald have poisoned you with, you will need to learn how to use it.”

Credence tensed immediately.

No. No. No, he wanted to get _rid_ of magic, to leave this place which radiated it and never hear of it again, not — not — _learn it._ He was shaking his head frantically, and even began to get away from Percival’s embrace, who was trying to calm him down with sweet words and caresses. “Credence, it’s okay,” he assured, but it _wasn’t_ . It was _anything but_. “Trust me. Magic is not what Mary Lou painted it out to be.”

His struggle waned as he tried to breathe slowly, and he steadied his head to look up at Graves. His eyes were shining with the threat of tears. Then, in a small voice, he confessed: “I… I don’t want to go to hell…”

And in a second, all of Percival’s confidence was replaced by an expression which could only be described as — heartbroken.

“You won’t go to hell, my boy,” he murmured, his voice filled with a vibrant sadness. As though the fact that Credence could believe such a thing was a tragedy in itself.

“But Mary Lou — ”

The mention of her name instantly made Graves shift from dejection to anger, and he snapped: “Mary Lou is most probably in hell, as we speak. Someone who beats children has no authority on matters of good and evil.”

 _She did that to help me…_ Credence thought, feeling even guiltier. He said nothing, but Percival understood the look in his eyes as well as if he had spoken out loud.

“The truth is, that… _woman_ ,” he said, with an emphasis on the last word which suggested he’d had a much more vulgar word in mind, “had a bad experience involving wizards before she even took you in.” That piece of information was news to Credence, and it spiked his curiosity, but Graves did not explain. “She was supposedly obliviated, but my guess is the spell was done poorly, or her hatred was so intense that, though she might have forgotten most of the events, the feeling remained. She did not teach you that wizards are evil because God, the bible, Jesus, or anyone else said so. She taught you that because she knows nothing about us, except her fear. She was not pious, nor omniscient. She was just wrong, hateful, and pathetic.”

This was the first time Credence had heard Percival speak that way of… well, anyone, really, but especially Mary Lou. He knew that Graves hadn’t liked her, but this vehemence was unheard of. And, to be honest, it… made him feel somewhat better about his own negative feelings towards her. They may not have been just, but at least Mr. Graves had similar ones.

“People like her portray magic as an act of the devil,” Percival went on. “I’m sure that some magic is his doing, especially the darkest arts, but most of it is much closer to miracle than blaspheme. Healing, protecting, creating, transforming… In fact, many Christian wizards believe that God himself is magic of the purest kind. And it is a well-known fact that Jesus Christ was one of the most powerful wizards ever born.”

“What?” Credence whispered, astonished. This was… against everything he had learnt from Mary Lou. The complete opposite of what the Second Salemers preached.

Mr. Graves smiled softly, pressing against him a little more as he caressed his back. The touch of his large hand left a wave of warmth in its trail that worried Credence somewhat, but which was far too pleasurable to make him want to interrupt it. “I’m not lying,” Percival assured. “I could show you books, if you want. But more than religious metaphysics, the important thing to know is that what you feel…” And as he said that, he placed the palm of his free hand against Credence’s heart — whose rhythm was rapidly rising. “All of these emotions and sensations, these powers you sense — they are _not_ evil. It is all perfectly natural. You were born with magic inside you, and to feel drawn to it is nothing you should be ashamed of. Quite the contrary. You should be proud. You are very powerful, Credence, and if you allow them to bloom, these powers could permit you to do so much good. You could help the vulnerable, and fight evil. Most of all — you could be happy.”

At this point, their faces were only an inch apart, and Credence felt hazy both from the proximity and by the smoothness of his words. He felt a warmth he knew only too well build in the bottom of his stomach, and his eyes could not seem to detach themselves from Percival’s lips. Even if magic was not evil… what about these feelings? He knew that he wasn’t supposed to feel that way about another man. Had he really been a good person, he would have extinguished them long ago, or better yet, he would not have felt them in the first place. But he couldn’t help it. Even now, he wanted to kiss him, to stay buried in his arms, and many other things he couldn’t dare to phrase. He knew that these feelings, these desires — were inherently wrong, yet he never ran away from them. He never wanted to run from the man who made him feel so many sinful things. On the contrary, he leaned into the touch, and longed for it whenever it was gone.

“I’m not the good person you think I am, Mr. Graves...” Credence murmured shamefully.

“I’m quite sure you are,” the man retorted with a certainty that made him want to weep. If only he knew.  

“Y-you don’t understand — I —” he mumbled, as he got away from Percival in a desperate attempt to put some distance between them, then shifted the covers so that they would hide the bulge in his pants. A bad move by all standards, as that drew the man’s attention precisely to what Credence was trying to conceal, and the look in his eye made it clear that he understood exactly what was going on. Credence had probably never felt so ashamed in his life, and that was saying something. He couldn’t even articulate an apology, and instead elected to hide his face in his hands — as though that would somehow make the embarrassing situation disappear.

“Is… _this_ what you’re so ashamed of?” Graves asked, receiving a tiny nod from Credence. The boy was not sure which reaction he’d expected (though disgust and anger had been high on the list), but he certainly had _not_ expected him to just… laugh softly. A laugh that was affectionate, without any mockery or repulsion. In fact, for some reason, it even sounded pleased. “Oh, Credence — this is normal,” he assured, and when Credence peeked from between his fingers, he saw that he was smiling warmly. Not in the least judgmental.    

“For w—wizards?” the boy managed to ask, his head emerging from behind his hands.

“Not only for wizards. Any healthy young man gets like this in the morning.”

Disappointment rushed through Credence at that response, and he looked down shamefully. If there was anything he was sure of, it was that he was not a _healthy young man_. He was… a freak.

“Don’t you believe me?” Graves asked, looking surprised. “We can ask a No-Maj doctor if you want, but I assure you their answer would be —”

“It’s just…” Credence interrupted him. He bit his lip. “I — I don’t think healthy young men would get like this by… by thinking of…” This was so embarrassing that he probably never would have finished his sentence, had Percival not encouraged him to go on with a nod — and he managed to croak: “… _of other men?_ ”

Now this took Percival aback. His cheeks darkened in a blush, which wasn’t something Credence had ever seen before. All he wanted now was to hide underground and _never_ resurface. The ostrich life. The good life. “I — I’m gonna go, I’m sorry —” he stammered, but Percival waved one of his hands to stop him.

“No, No, Credence, it’s fine,” he assured, then coughed awkwardly. He took another moment to regain his composure, a deep breath, then said: “You’re right that not all of them would get like this by thinking of other men, but some of them do. More than you think. And — there’s nothing wrong with that. I know No-Majs are… _ridiculously_ harsh against love by people of the same gender, but, believe me, it is not any more of a sin than that shared by a man and a woman. Why would it be?”

The question left Credence speechless. He had never even considered the fact that this burden he had carried all his life could be anything but a sin, or that it was in any way comparable to heterosexual love.  “Well… the bible…” he protested weakly.

“The bible got it wrong on some things,” Percival cut in. “Love between men, or between women, is one of them. A lot of its rules were just meant so the people it was written for would survive and give birth to future generations, and some others were put in there by the human writers, who had their own prejudices.”

Credence stared at him, lost in a meddle of awe, fear, and fascination. Had anyone else but Mr. Graves told him these things, he would have known them as treacherous blasphemy right away, but… This was Mr. Graves. There was something in his voice, a strong confidence deprived of egotism that always made his words sound true, even when they were so foreign to Credence.

Percival smiled tenderly, and his hand caressed Credence’s thigh in a way that did not at all help the boy’s situation. The pressure of his hand made his skin tingle underneath the fabric, feeling warmer with each stroke, and Credence was torn between the need for the touch to end before he embarrassed himself any further, and the desire for the hand to press more firmly, and move a little higher. “This isn’t a sin,” Percival murmured with a smile. “I promise.”

Credence looked away. “It… feels like one,” he confessed, blushing.

“Why?” Graves asked, sounding sincerely curious.

“Well, because... it feels good,” he answered, wondering how that was not obvious.

“Why would God make a sin feel good? Wouldn’t that be cruel?”

Once again, the mere questioning left Credence dumbfounded. He had never thought of it from that perspective, and yet… It was true that he sometimes thought God was cruel for making sins feel so pleasurable. Yet now that Percival phrased it so plainly, he realized the contradiction. God wasn’t _supposed_ to be cruel. He was meant to love all of His children equally. So why would he make things so difficult for Credence? Even if it was the Devil’s doing, as Mary Lou often said, why would God leave him to the Devil’s mercy in ways He did not do with his other children?

As Credence did not respond, lost in his thoughts, Graves continued. “I’ve committed sins, Credence. True sins. They don’t feel good.”

Like when Percival had mentioned Mary Lou’s past, Credence felt curiosity race through him. What was he talking about? Was it the war? He knew Graves had served in it, but he’d never mentioned what his role had been, exactly. Whatever sins Percival thought he had committed, Credence held no doubt that they had always been for just reasons, or because there was no other choice. He could not imagine Percival to be a sinner like himself. He _knew_ he wasn’t, not where it mattered, anyway, even if he did use magic.

“Pleasure is not something sinful,” Graves went on, kindly, “nor should you be ashamed of it.”

The blush on Credence’s cheeks deepened at that. “But it’s… it’s embarrassing.”

His admission made Graves’s expression shift into one Credence was not sure how to qualify. He had never seen it before, and it was… impenetrable in ways Percival usually was not. He looked deeply pensive and deliberate, but not mad. Perhaps irritated, but Credence could sense that irritation wasn’t directed towards him. Then, slowly, the man asked, “Do you… want to make it go away?”

Credence’s dark eyes lit up with a glimmer of hopefulness. “Yes, _please_ ,” he pleaded.  

Thoughtful, Percival licked his lips, which really did _not_ help. He seemed to weigh his options for a moment, before he settled his mind, and announced huskily: “Then I’ll teach you.”

Credence had no idea what to expect, wondering if Mr. Graves was perhaps going to use a spell of some sort, but… the way he had phrased these words, and the look that was in his eyes as he said them, rose a deep excitement within him — which of course, was really unproductive regarding the problem at hand.

Percival untied his cravat, then shifted on the bed to better face Credence. He was looking right into his eyes, and the closeness, the feeling of their mingled breath between their lips, almost grazing — was intoxicating. “Trust me?” Graves asked.

And all Credence could answer was a breathless “ _Yes_ ”, for in that instant, he trusted him blindly, devoutly, absolutely.

“So… you’ll do as I say?” Graves asked, cupping Credence’s jaw to let his thumb trace the line of his lower lip. The touch shot tingles of electricity through all of his body, and he moved closer instinctively.

“…Yes,” he murmured, closing his eyes.  

“Good,” Percival commented, and god, there was something incredibly exciting and warm about receiving the approval of this man. He already sought it in normal circumstances, but the situation, his low voice, his dark, half-lidded eyes — added a new sensuality to it, and Credence could feel himself grow harder.

“Take off your trousers,” Graves commanded.

The order made him feel somewhat self-conscious, and he felt his skin heat under Percival’s attentive gaze, but he did as he was told.

“Your underwear, as well.”

Credence hesitated at that, until he saw the way Graves was looking at him. Like no one had ever looked at him before. For a moment, he sensed that those eyes did not see him as a freak, but as someone precious, someone _beautiful_. He would have done anything Mr. Graves asked, if it meant keeping those eyes on him a little longer.

So he took his briefs off, letting another man — and not any man, the one he had fantasized so much about — see his cock for the first time. It was already leaking, and achingly hard, but the way Mr. Graves looked at it made it difficult to feel ashamed. It was a look of awe, meddled with a hunger that sent shivers down Credence’s spine.

“Good boy…” Percival praised, stroking his hair tenderly, and Credence almost let out a quiet moan. “Now, take it in your hand,” he instructed, authoritative once again.  

Credence wasn’t sure how he was supposed to do that, having never dared to _actually_ touch himself back at the church — his fantasies, which mostly involved Mr. Graves, were usually answered by nothing but frustration, cold water, or, when he could not help himself, grinding against the mattress of his bed. He tried to do as ordered, rather awkwardly, which drew another another soft laugh from Percival. “Like this,” he directed fondly, and showed the gesture by putting his hand on top of his. He did not actually _touch_ his cock, and went back to caressing his thigh as soon as Credence had got the grip right, but it was so easy to imagine that this was Percival’s strong hand, instead of his own, and this time, he was not able to contain the moan of pleasure that escaped his lips.  

“Perfect,” Percival complimented, his voice breathy, and awestruck. “Now stroke it,” he instructed. “Up, and down.”

From that moment on, all of Credence’s reasonable thoughts — his religion, his shame, and his embarrassment — were all thrown out the window.

This was… This felt better than _anything_ he’d ever felt. Credence had never even been aware that his body could feel that way, that this heat and tension could spread through him, making his skin become so sensitive, so pleasurable — everywhere.  The hand on his cock felt incredible, but the best was Mr. Graves: encouraging him, guiding him, _praising_ him _._ He whispered sweet nothings about how well he was doing, how beautiful he was, how perfect. Most of all, the alternation between the two facets of Percival was exhilarating. His soft, gentle side — the Percival that embraced him after long days and always worried about whether he’d eaten enough — blended so passionately with his authoritative one, which was used to giving orders and see them followed to the letter.

When Credence came with a loud, helpless sob, he wondered if he’d ever felt this happy in his life.  He fell heavily in Mr. Graves’s arms, exhausted, and the last thing he heard before falling asleep was the sound of his voice murmuring soothing words, and a cleaning spell.

 

  

 

        Modesty was hopping up the stairs alongside professor Dumbledore, taking in the view of the castle, when she suddenly lost her balance. She grabbed the ramp for support as she tried to come to terms with the terrifying realization that — the stairs were _moving_ . She was not by any means an easily scared child, but she had to admit this unexpected means of transportation left her torn between the side of her which thought: _‘Hot dog THIS is the whoopiest of all whoops!’_ , and the one which prayed: _‘sweet baby Jesus in a handbasket please don’t make a British staircase kill me.’_

“Are these like… boats?” she asked, barely managing to keep the terror from her voice. “They take students to class?”

“Well, they mostly do whatever they want,” answered Dumbledore with a carefree laugh.  

 _A madman,_ Modesty thought. _Awesome_ , _but mad._

“How do they not get lost?” she wondered, frowning. That seemed to be a really inconvenient way to get to your classes on time. Or maybe wizards just flew around by broom like Noot, and never used the stairs?

“Oh, they _do_ get lost,” Dumbledore countered, amused. “Everyone gets lost in Hogwarts at least once a week. Only, as you grow older, you admit it a lot less.”

“So, then, you must never admit it at all, right?” she asked, glad to finally be able to leave the crazy stairs.

Professor Dumbledore laughed at her comment, and it was only through that that she realized it might have sounded rude. But… well, yeah. The man was ancient. You could tell from his glasses, shaped like half-moons — these were old people glasses, or ‘ _spectacles’_ , as they called them. His auburn hair was already filled with grey and white threads, and his beard was so long it reached the middle of his chest. You _had_ to be super old to grow a beard that long, Modesty knew it. Corentin from Sunday school was seventeen, which was already _really_ old, and he’d been trying to grow a beard for five years, only to get a sparse stubble on his chin and cupid’s bow. To get a beard that impressive, you needed to be at least… _forty_.

Her important philosophical considerations on the passage of time and beard-growing were interrupted, however, when she heard a scream coming from her left.

_“MY CABBAGES!”_

She jumped, yelping a startled: “Whose?”

When she turned to the source of the noise, she realized it had come from a spectacularly loud painting. Oh yes, because in that Nifty-Yet-Terrifying school slash haunted castle place, the painting people could _talk_. In that case, it was an old, Asian man (older than Dumbledore, even), dressed all in green with a strange cap. He was sobbing loudly next to what had probably once been a carriage filled with cabbages, but was now no more than ruins of leaves and wood. It was rather pitiful, really. Modesty felt a bit sad for him. He really seemed to have cared for those cabbages.

“Ignore him,” Dumbledore instructed offhandedly, “he does that every day.”

“I heard you, Albus Dumbledore!” the old man shouted. “Don’t think I didn’t! This is a conspiracy! Every day — my poor cabbages — ”

Modesty had to be dragged away by Dumbledore, because the old painted man’s words had just blown her mind. “I can’t believe it, he heard you!” she gasped. “He knew your name! I thought the paintings just moved like when we go to the pictures — but — they can _think_ ? Are they _alive_? Do they remember stuff?”

Dumbledore smiled enigmatically, and let go of her hand. “Young lady, you ask pertinent questions, but I’m afraid I can hardly answer you without a prerequisite of advanced enchantments and arithmancist knowledge.”

Modesty raised an eyebrow, then commented, deadpan: “I have _no idea_ what these words mean.”

“Which is why I cannot explain in a satisfactory manner,” Dumbledore confirmed with a solemn little nod. “But think of them as having a portion of sentience, much more limited than ours. Depending on talent, a wizard may be capable of partly recreating the consciousness of an actual human being… Or, in the case of this fellow, a man whose cabbages get abused on a daily basis.”

“Is it another painting person who really hates his cabbages?” Modesty asked. As a pretty-good-artist herself, she was fascinated with the lives of these characters, and she had seen them visiting each other across the halls. She was thinking that maybe one of the many knights could be allergic to salad. Or was there such a thing as painted bullies? As though these weren’t enough of a pain in real life…

“I’m not sure,” Dumbledore answered, pensive. “It seems that his carriage gets attacked by a different character each day. Our caretaker tried to punish those responsible for the poor chap’s distress, but the culprit changed every day, so she gave up.” Then, he took a contemplative expression that made him look all serious, and with a very intellectual-like wave of the hand, added: “It is as if it was in his, em, _artistic essence_ , to be lamenting over the loss of his cabbages, if you will.”

At that point, Modesty could not help but laugh out loud.

Albus Dumbledore had made her visit the castle last for an hour now, even if they had only covered a small part of the grounds. From what he had shown her, and what she had already come to discover in the past couple of days: Modesty _loved_ Hogwarts. Compared to the dullness of Mary Lou’s church and regular school, this was the most exciting place she’d ever seen. Dumbledore might have been pretty weird, but he was also super fun, and quite smart. Noot had said that he was a teacher here, which only added to how cool this place felt to Modesty.

To every question Modesty had (and there were many) he was always able to bring her a clear answer, or, like with the painting consciousness issue, explain why he couldn’t. It was a really nice change from Ma’, who’d always punished her when she questioned, well — just about anything; Credence who knew even less than her about magic, Noot who always got his explanations mixed up and made things even more confusing, and Mr. Graves, whom she had elected to only refer to as variations of ‘Grumpy Face’ — because he was _always_ grumpy. Well, unless Credence was around. Then he turned all sweet with him and they got touchy-feely with each other. That didn’t help Modesty much either, because he barely even noticed her during those times. So he was either a grouchy old man, or a lovey-dovey old man. She wasn’t sure which was worse, but she had to wonder what on earth did Credence see in him that made him go so… blush-faced.

Then, Professor Dumbledore started to explain the origin of the large painting that opened the door to Gryffindor tower, which they would visit later, and from that followed a long discussion about the four houses of Hogwarts and their history — a much more interesting topic to think about than her brother’s weird taste in men. Dumbledore was a Gryffindor himself, and their head of house, so his description of that house was the most enthusiastic. To Modesty, though, courage and ‘ _heart’_ (whatever that meant… didn’t everyone have a heart in the wizarding world?) didn’t seem to be a quality anywhere near as nifty as being super smart, like Ravenclaws, or super sneaky, like Slytherins. The Hufflepuffs sounded like the type of people Modesty found sweet, but never understood — a bit like Credence, Noot, or Melissa, who had been her sister once. Turning the other cheek was one of the rules from the bible which confused her the most. If someone attacked her, she was sure as hell going to respond, and get her revenge. _Killing with kindness_ was bullcrap. Kindness didn’t teach people anything, and Credence was the living proof of that. His kindness had only allowed Ma’ to feel even more self-righteous… Until he exploded.

Either way, she had to admit she loved the idea of being part of a big house of wizarding children. It felt like a family, only even bigger — and she suspected she would have loved it, even as a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff.

“Say, d’ya think I can study here when schools starts again?” Modesty asked. “This place looks crazy, and stupidly dangerous: I’m sold.”

Dumbledore chuckled, and answered with a question of his own: “Well, you’re not eleven yet, are you?”

“I’m ten and two fifths!” she protested, pouting. These things were important.

“Alright,” he answered with a pacifying nod. “So you’ll start school next year — but since you’re from North America, I believe you’ll be going to Ilvermorny.”

“Oh, yeah,” Modesty said, suddenly remembering. “Rook mentioned that. Is it as cool as Hogwarts?”

The professor scoffed, looking offended. “No place is as _cool_ as Hogwarts.”

“Right, and you’re not biased at all, eh?” she retorted with a teasing grin.

“I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” he only commented, sounding impressed.  

“Hey, I’m ten and two fifths, not _eight_.” To be truthful, Noot had explained the word to her only yesterday evening, when she had argued that the newborn Mooncalf they had named after herself was the best one in the world. “But yeah. I guess I’d go the American school. It just feels weird, right? I don’t know anything about that place. I’m not even sure my dad went there.”

“Don’t worry, you will fit in,” Albus assured soothingly. “Muggle-born children typically know nothing of the magical world when they start school. You’ll be like them in that respect. As for your dad… Well, if he lived in New York, he most likely did go. Northern states don’t engage much in homeschooling.”

“I think he was from New York, yeah,” Modesty said, trying to remember if Rook had said anything about that.  

“Do you perchance know his name?” he enquired.

“Yeah… it was… Marcus Merendik,” she answered, thoughtful. It was a strange sensation, that she struggled to memorize the name of someone who should have been so close to her. Her dad. The reason why she had magical powers. But also the reason why she had been sent off to Ma’. Which had also led to meeting Credence. But meeting Credence had led to the black smoke. But the black smoke had led to Hogwarts…

She might have appeared confident and carefree on the outside, and she made sure for things to remain that way, but should truth be told, Modesty was often overwhelmed with the mixed feelings of pain and excitement this new life had brought along. She didn’t cry — ten and two fifths was too old for a girl to cry — but sometimes, she almost felt like it. Not from sadness, necessarily, but from so many emotions all bundled up together in her little body.

“Merendik?” Albus repeated, sounding bemused. “That’s funny. I actually met your grandmother, it would seem.”

“Really?” Modesty asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Really,” he confirmed. “Lianna Cohen, who later married Henry Merendik. I worked at the ministry of magic for her, in the course of a summer internship. I was only fifteen or so.”

“So she was from Europe?”

“Indeed. Irish, I believe.”

It was strange that, despite all of what Rook had told her, there was still so much about her own family she did not know. But it was also exhilarating. To see that her ancestors had left a trace in these magical places made her feel like she truly did belong in this new world.

“What was she like?” she asked, feeling very curious. “Did she go to school here?”

“She did go to school there, though it was not my generation. And she was a fierce, adventurous woman. Terrible at tea-making, though,” he added, wrinkling his nose at what was probably the resurfacing of a nasty tea-related memory.

“Maybe that’s why she left England, then,” Modesty concluded gravely. She remembered what the witch lady had said when she’d pretended to be asleep, about her friend putting England to shame because he had no tea. It seemed to be very serious business on this island.

“Undoubtedly,” Albus answered, but Modesty did not notice the joking tone, and nodded solemnly.

 

        As they walked down the corridors of the second floor, Albus told her what he knew about her grandmother, and even her father. It seemed as though the Merendik family was a rather reputable one, even overseas. It was fascinating, and it made her a little proud, even if she knew these people would never recognize her as their child. That didn’t actually made her feel as sad as it should have. She didn’t need the recognition of strangers who would look down upon her for something that wasn’t her fault. And it wasn’t like she had no family — she had her mom, whom she’d try to find again, some day, and most of all: she had her brother. That made her think of another question she was eager to find the answer to.

“I wonder who Credence’s parents are,” she told the professor.

For some reason, the remark made him tense. Visibly.

“I’m sure he does as well,” he said, trying to sound detached — but Modesty was not fooled. “It’s an unfortunate position to be in.”

“Did you know Credence’s parents, too?” she asked pointedly, squinting her eyes.

“Hm? No, of course I did not know her. I’m afraid my contacts amongst American wizards is wretchedly limited,” he said with a smile that looked terribly phony.

Modesty frowned. She hadn’t misheard, right?

“…Right,” she answered slowly, and left it at that.

It seemed that, once again, this was an answer she would have to find by herself.

 

  

 

        By the time Percival got out of his icy cold bath, the skin of his fingers had wrinkled, and he felt much more clear-headed about what had just occurred.

Which, in that case, was not exactly a good thing.

“What the fuck did you do, Graves,” he muttered between his teeth.  Had he completely lost his mind? What had he been thinking? He _hadn’t_ been thinking, that was the whole problem. God, of all the stupid ideas he could have had —

_Okay. Okay. Calm down._

After all, this… this wasn’t that weird. He was supposed to help Credence out of the puritan self-loathing the Barebone woman had put him in, and learning how to pleasure his body, and that arousal wasn’t evil, was… part of it. What said self-love more than masturbation? In a way, it was even correlated to magic. So really, he was just doing what Dumbledore had suggested. Only, in, uh. An unorthodox way.

… _Right_. That sounded phony even to him.

But come on, the boy couldn’t have gone his entire life ashamed of himself like that! Even if he had overstepped their boundaries (by a fucking mile), it wasn’t like he had… taken advantage of him. No. He’d helped him! This was something you learnt as a preteen from your other guy friends, but Credence… Well, had had very few friends, if any. So that was just… catching up. And technically, he hadn’t even touched him. Well — not where it mattered. He had watched but… that wasn’t the same right? And it’s not like he’d enjoyed…

Yeah, okay. That was bullshit. Credence had looked… damn, how could anyone look like that? It should have been illegal. The thoughts that had raced through him, as he watched his milky skin flush so beautifully, his dark eyes looking so helpless and lustful, his reddened lips, and his voice, his gorgeous, moaning voice… It made him want to do much more than just _watch_ , and he couldn’t afford to think about Credence like that. Even if the boy had more or less implied that he’d felt aroused because of him… It just wasn’t right. The age difference, for one. Credence was hardly a minor, but that did not change the imbalance. They were at such different times in their lives, had lived in such different worlds — how could it even begin to work? And Credence was so… pure, and vulnerable. He would have done anything Graves asked of him, and that power scared him. The last thing he wanted was Credence to do things he did not want just to please Graves.

So he couldn’t do this. Not until Credence saw a bit more of the world, and relied on him a little less. Then… Well, then, he was unsure whether Credence would even want to be with him anymore, so it wasn’t worth wondering about.

But damn, had he been beautiful. As he felt excitement rush through him once again at the thought, despite the cold water he had just emerged from, it was becoming increasingly clear that Percival really needed to sleep with someone. If only to be able to release that tension and look at Credence straight in the eye. Now that he thought of it, it had been _ages._ Not since his kidnapping, and even at least a couple of months before that.

Percival was bisexual — though he mostly slept with men, simply because it was less troublesome. The last thing Graves wanted was a pregnant woman asking him to save her honor in a white wedding. To the despair of his family, Graves categorically refused to get married. There was a mundanity to it that he hated, and the general idea of settling down _forever_ with anyone terrified him. It was probably due to a mix of daddy issues and his own craving for control, but he did not think much about it. He had never needed marriage to be successful, and he had proven that amply.

Due to that, however, if Credence was gay or bisexual, he was indeed lucky to have Graves as a mentor. Who better to guide him than someone who had already lived through the fears Credence was experiencing? (Albeit, in a much more subdued manner, since wizards were far less homophobic than non-Majs, and he had not been raised by a puritan lunatic.) He would be able to show him that there was nothing to be ashamed of, and, once they managed to get rid of the obscurus and got back to New York, he’d take him to the hidden parlors and dance salons the queer wizarding community used to keep in touch. He could even help him find a boyfriend.

The prospect made him bitterly jealous, which was stupid. Credence did not belong to him. He deserved a nice boy of a similar age, with whom things would be more balanced. More healthy, more equal. Graves was too old for him, too controlling, too power driven, and generally, too fucked up. Especially these days, when he could scarcely ever fall asleep without a light on anymore.

No, he needed to take any inappropriate thoughts of Credence out of his head. Perhaps when he had some free time, he’d go see Maxime to fill the craving months of abstention had apparently led to.

Whatever it took to keep those inappropriate feelings in check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Percy. I’m sure you’ll do a great job at that.
> 
> NB: anyone who caught the crossover Easter egg gets to request a sketch + my love, cause your references are awesome.
> 
> Apologies for the delay! I’m sure other students will relate to how hellish this time of the year is… bloody finals, folks. It will all go back to normal (or even quicker) in June, though! Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Comments and kudos give me life, thank you to those who post some ♡


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